Countdown

Years 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 wit, but then they asked me a question that totally tripped me up.

"Tell us, Mike. If you had one wish, what would it be?"

I didn't even have to think about it.

"A house", 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 incrementally 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. Unwavering. Stupid.

"Yes, 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 to. It revealed to me that selfishness 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. It's this...

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. Nice try.

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 living the Groundhog Day Experience. Jump off bridges, stick a roman candle up your butt, date Eddie Murphy, whatever. 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, or days, or 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 zombie apocalypses. 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.

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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.

=lefty=