ago, when I wasn't near as wrinkled and doughy and
suffused with the toxic remnants of a zillion
Pop-Tarts as I am now, I tried out for a game show.
I did pretty well in the early rounds, dazzling the
talent scouts with my movie-star looks and my razor-like
then they asked me a question that totally tripped
"Tell us, Mike. If you had one wish, what would
I didn't even have to think about it.
I said, because at that time I was seriously considering
getting a fetid death trap to call my own.
The judges squeenched up their eyes, raised their
eyebrows a half-centimeter and, tilting their heads
more to the right with each syllable, said "Really?
Just a house? You sure?"
If I'd have been adequately evolved I might have
understood their obvious visual clues but I was steadfast.
a house." And it was instantly like a door closed
in their faces and that was pretty much it for me.
Not even a consolation prize.
You see, even though I was totally sincere they were
looking for answers like "universal freedom
from disease", "world peace", " a
really chep muffler", that sort of altruistic
thing. My philanthropic measure was, alack
and alas, found lacking.
I am by no means anyone's picture of a saint, as
anyone I owe money will atest, but that novel experience
caused me to begin looking outward more than I used
actually has immediate consequences. Luckily for
me it was only a missed chance at winning a toaster
oven rather than a life-or-death situation involving
a busload of German
cheerleaders, a small pot of
petunias and a cart loaded with fruits and vegetables.
Since then I've rolled the question through
my mind on the odd occasion, mulling
the perfect solution.
I've yet to
find the one perfect wish but I've come up with one
that has afforded me no end of enjoyable conjecture.
The moment we're born a time-stamp should appear
somewhere on our bodies, informing us of how many
days we have
left to live.
That would be awesome!
I know, I know. If you knew that you'd die on such-and-such
a date that means you could then take any perilous
chance you want and get away with it scot-free.
EHHHHH! Sorry. Wrong.
Ya see, there's nothing about the date that says
you won't live the better part of your life missing
all your limbs just because you wanted to ride the
tigers at the zoo when you were a kidling.
It does, however, mean that on the weeks or days
leading up to your inevitable demise you can begin
Day Experience. Jump off bridges, stick
a roman candle up your butt, date Eddie
It would also make the newspaper fun to read again,
especially the obituaries.
You might think it would be a bummer knowing, for
instance, that you only have a few months to strut
your stuff but,
to be honest, we all only have a few months to live,
minutes... as far as we know, that is. Which we don't.
Actuarial tables may work their small miracles but
they can't predict asteroids, ninja assassins or
And if we weren't so concerned about cheating death,
then why do we buy so much insurance?
There's no moral, no deeper insight to this story.
It's just a reflection on who we are, how we live
and why we have to pay so much for mufflers.
Addendum: Yeah, I changed today's comic a bit. The genitalia was a bit "in
your face" so I thought I'd adjust it for those of a more sensitive persuasion.