An old friend of mine is at end-stage of a long bout with cancer. We both decided, years ago, that we weren’t going to join any pity parties and, if we were going to stay friends to the end we were going to carry on as usual. Some days, I don’t have much to say, but I’ve been making an attempt to write something to her every day or two. Sooner or later, she’ll stop writing back. If I’m lucky, her son will eventually tell me it’s time to stop writing. I’m not looking forward to getting that notice but I haven’t heard from her in a while and that’s not a good sign. She’s in California and I’m in Minnesota and we don’t have many friends in common. She’s cut herself off from most of the people she knows because they can’t talk to her like she’s not already dead or like her dying is the worst thing that could happen to them. I haven’t seen her son since he was a baby and, as far as I know, he might not even know I exist. So, on the days when I don’t have something worth talking about, I send her jokes. Usually politically incorrect jokes. If nothing else, someday the email address will bounce back on me.
. . .
It was only when I bought a motorbike that I found out that adrenaline is brown.
. . .
Yesterday I got stuck behind a young girl riding a horse. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t get past her. I was tooting my horn, and hanging out the window yelling at her. She still wouldn’t let me past. There was a guy on a motorcycle behind me and he was waving too. The road rage was building to the point of gun violence.
I was getting so wound up and frustrated. “It’s people like you who cause accidents!” I shouted.
Eventually, I just couldn’t take any more so I looked around to make sure the coast was clear . . . and I jumped off of the carousel.
. . .
This little old lady decides one day that she wants to join a biker club, so she goes down to her local club and knocks on the door. The door is opened by a big hairy biker with a beard, who’s covered in tattoos.
“I’d like to join your club,” says the little old lady.
The biker is amused by this and decides to play along, telling her, “Ok, but you’ve got to meet the requirements first. Do you have a bike?”
The little old lady points to a Harley and says, “Yeah, that’s my bike there.”
The biker is surprised but says, “And do you smoke?”
The little old lady says, “Yeah, I smoke 20 cigarettes a day and when I’m shooting pool I’ll smoke a few cigars too.”
The biker is impressed and says, “And have you ever been picked up by the Fuzz?”
The little old lady says, “No, but I’ve been swung around by the nipples a few times.”
. . .
I kept telling my brother to be careful while he was out riding his motorcycle, but he wouldn’t listen. And of course, one day he fell off.
I went to visit him in the hospital and he said to me, “I… di…
“Did… n… wu….
“I… din… war… yu…”
I interrupted, “You can’t say ‘I didn’t warn you?’”
. . .
Life sucks, then you die. Goddamn it.