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Wake up, Carl, you sound like a dimwit.

Sorry for your loss… your loss of perspective, that is.

Let me get this straight, for years you hadn’t seen or talked to or even thought about this lady you used to bang.

And now that you find out you get to keep doing that guilt-free, you’re upset?

Did I get that right?

Thoughts and prayers.

As in, I pray you start thinking instead of letting some faded memory of an old lay play tricks with your brain and ruin your day.

You kill me, Carl. Someone dies in their forties and you’re shocked?

Geezus, you’re thick.

Lucky you weren’t born a hundred years ago. Back then by the time women were forty they were great-grandmothers. Nobody was “shocked” when those old ladies croaked of dysentery or from black lung or while giving birth to their twenty-third child.

Except for the tears shed over the funeral bills because assholes didn’t sell casket insurance back then.

Boo hoo, your poor friend dropped dead in the middle of a party and you wanna feel sad about that?

She probably didn’t feel a thing and had a smile on her face because she was at a fucking party, ya goof, which is the best way to die if you ask me.

You want to feel bad for someone, Carl?

How ‘bout you shed a tear or two for whoever was about to get that piece of birthday cake your dead friend was dishing out. That cake eater and everyone else watching your ex keel over are now officially scarred for life and will probably never trust eating anything served on a tiny paper plate again.

What do I think happens to good people like her when they die? Same thing that happens to dead jerkoffs – worms eat their bodies, and the devil eats their souls.

Or maybe they grow wings and a halo and play Quidditch in the clouds with all the other dead assholes.

Or nothing.

How the hell should I know? I’m stuck here alive not knowing shit about death, just like you.

I’ll tell you this much, though, I ain’t afraid of it.

Whatever I got coming to me when I finally croak can’t be anywhere near as bad as what I used to get from my ex. Death don’t scare me but her shrieking does. She makes the devil seem timid and a warthog look pretty. In fact, she might have warthog blood in her since her family did a lot of inbreeding and such.

You want me to tell you how to not think about death?

Christ, you’re a grown man, Carla, start acting like it. What you do with your thoughts regarding death is up to you, but I suggest you laugh in its face and mock its outfit.

I’ll tell you the joke my old man used to tell about taking your last breath.

He’d ask, “Son, do ya know what the number one cause of death is?”

Then he’d shout, “Birth, you moron. You already bought your ticket.”

He was right about that.

The only dumbasses who die are the ones stupid enough to be born, and that gives me all the perspective I need.

Everybody I know will die before me or else I’ll do it to them first.

Either way, that’s gonna be a shitty weekend for everyone else.

Until then, Carl, might as well do a few shots of bourbon, get laid, and have some laughs because the devil’s gonna get your weepy ass either way.

Now get the hell off my porch, dumbnuts.

Pops