When They Ring the Golden Bells

I'm getting very old, friends. I'm coming up on 65 as soon as my birthday rolls around, which in 2018 will be January 17. The older you get, if you're me, the more sentimental you get, and even weepy. I've heard of old guys going sentimentally crazy, and maybe I've thought that over so much I'm bringing it on subconsciously.

It doesn't help when people you know die. Just lost a cousin in the last week or so. And of course Mom and Dad, my grandparents, various friends, classmates, and pets have died over the years. It could be that I will live till 90. But will that be good? My life insurance guy called a couple months ago and assured me that he has my finances planned so I will have income till I'm 90. How about that? But since that's only 25 years from January, I have all new worries! Since the older you get, the faster time goes, 25 years in those terms is about a week and half. So in two measly weeks I'll be broke!

I've heard a lot of people on the internet say they don't appreciate hearing about religion. Frankly, I'm one of them, most of the time. The whole overly-sentimental approach to religion strikes me as bad. I'm not really leaning that way in my own practice. But I'm getting more sentimental. But here's how it works, I take a mystical approach to faith and have some gains in that pursuit. So every little thing -- a phrase, an old memory -- can trigger emotions or appreciation in that context, and, frankly, I about bust out bawling.

If you think back to your religious foundations, which for me was childhood, all those lessons are things I took to heart, and still have, filtering them through all my religious pursuits since. One of the songs that gets me is "When They Ring the Golden Bells." Savor verse 1:

There's a land beyond the river,
That we call the sweet forever,
And we only reach that shore by faith's decree;
One by one we'll gain the portals,
There to dwell with the immortals,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Then there's another whole dimension to it that I haven't even mentioned, involving a guy's untimely death!

Yes, I used to go to a lot of revival services. My parents thought it was good for me. Maybe you heard the story of Brother Tolbert Victory. Well, I was there. I saw him die, and was with him when he heard the golden bells. The service ended. I had gone forward for prayer. Tolbert's hair was like a wet mop. He was delirious with the spirit, OK? Delirious. He told me, his lips touching my ear, that I'd do great things for the Lord. I didn't ask what. He seemed to shudder, like a man in vision. Like he looked ahead and saw me doing great things, but he also saw things out ahead that weren't so good.

He told me -- he was looking around, like he didn't want anyone to hear the inside scoop -- that these great old songs that we loved, including "Brighten the Corner Where You Are," "The Hallelujah Side," "The Old-Fashioned Meeting," and "When They Ring the Golden Bells," were being forgotten, or even attacked. Even though we'd just sung them! He said he wanted me to keep 'em going as long as I could, insofar as I had it in me, and if I had the sense of commitment to the task and the unction straight from the Lord to get it done. (I didn't have it entirely; I felt like, you know, Que Sera Sera, whatever will be will be. I was a realistic kid, but Victory was in such a fever I didn't poo-poo his spiritual burden.)

Then he said something I never thought I'd hear any man say. "If anything happens to me, this is all up to you!" Again, I was cool to the idea, not het up; I was a kid. A kid, I'm telling you. No man should lay that kind of grief on a kid. What was he talking about? I wasn't sure. But he sung for me the lyrics to the glorious last verse of "Golden Bells" and chorus:

When our days shall know their number,
When in death we sweetly slumber,
When the King commands the spirit to be free;
Nevermore with anguish laden,
We shall reach that lovely Aiden,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Don't you hear the bells now ringing?
Don't you hear the angels singing?
'Tis the glory hallelujah Jubilee.
In that far-off sweet forever,
Just beyond the shining river,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

Brother Tolbert Victory exacted a solemn pledge from me, that I would be wary of the future and our rich spiritual heritage of the great songs. And if anything ever happened to him, that I would step forward in stolid vigilance in this regard. Which was extraordinarily hard in those pre-Spotify days.

OK, OK, I said, "If anything ever happens to you, fine, so let it be written, so let it be done. Six of one, half dozen of another. Lady Luck, don't fail me now. Hot-cha-cha-cha. Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are."

So I went to the basement for the post-revival refreshments, when literally five minutes later some kid comes running into the church, shrieking, screaming, that Brother Victory was hanging from one of the trees next to the driveway! We all rushed out -- my own orange soft drink being half spilled in the commotion -- to behold the lifeless body of that great man of God, unmistakably him, extra large brown baggy suit on a medium body, sweaty mop of hair and all.

They cut the man of God down and had everyone stand back. Maybe he could be revived. But it was no use. Brother Victory had reached that lovely Aiden. Unbelievable, I know, but every word is as good as gold. No one knew what to make of my own personal crazy response. I was beating on him -- this was before CPR -- and screaming, "I didn't think you would die in 5 minutes!" Now that I had taken an oath, etc.

Those years are way behind us now. It's been decades. I don't put much stock in the oaths we take when we're kids, or anytime really. "I'll be your best friend till the rivers all run dry," etc. Circumstances change. But I've done my best, nonetheless, which really isn't much. The songs haven't exactly been besieged by enemies. Occasionally there's a bad arrangement I haven't liked. But more or less, Brother Victory's fears about the songs was just paranoia. Religion's not under siege. When they tell you that, it's crazy talk. The churches are in large part spiritually bereft, yes, but there's more sociology involved there than willful sieges. It's laughable and something to cry for. Whited sepulchers aren't what they used to be, they're worse!

I started off above saying I get weepy, and that's all true. I was singing these songs today, driving along, trying not to bawl since I wasn't alone. And it took me back, way back, to that old church, and that night, and that great evangelist hanging in the tree. I can still see his body in my mind's eye. Dead as a door nail, yes, but his spirit already in that haven of tomorrow. What kind of joke was he playing, to get a promise from an impressionable kid like that, then to commit suicide without even going down for refreshments? The ladies made those things for our enjoyment. They weren't expecting the evangelist, of all people, to kill the revival.

The second verse is very good, refreshingly tear-jerking for me:

We shall know no sin nor sorrow,
In that haven of tomorrow,
When our barque shall sail beyond the silver sea;
We shall only know the blessing
Of our Father's sweet caressing,
When they ring the golden bells for you and me.

You mess with that song, brother, you're messing with me.

Celebrity Deaths -- If Only I'd Been There!

Famous people with their huge problems have always been off limits to us common folks. So it seems that they develop huge problems and die, whether by their own hand or another. I always think the same thing: "If only I'd been there!"

Because my philosophy has always been, People are people. What's good for one's good for another. One size fits all. And I've always been good at this sort of thing -- not to toot my own horn but just to state the facts. If only I'd been there, frankly, it's bloody hell likely they would've made it through. Not to put too fine a point on it.

I remember thinking this when Elvis was in his downward spiral, expressed in one of his last songs, "Way Down," his last single before his death. My thought went something like this, "The guy's in the grips of Death ... sure wish I could be there!" But of course, you know how it goes, he had lots of hangers-on and it would've taken some doing for me to get in.

Too bad. Because with my natural talents of talking anyone down, if they're able to think at all -- I'm no good with human vegetables -- I'm sure he'd still be recording today. I'm able to do this because I'm super friendly, very competent and empathetic, and able to contextualize the truths of life for the individual. Pretty good, huh? In a way -- and this is my biggest secret -- I'm really only channeling the female forebears of my family, Mom and Grandma, who had social skills that didn't quit.

Going way back, back before I had any idea about any of this, I probably could've helped Judy Garland. She was still alive when I was a budding kid, but I didn't know much about my abilities. I was a little too young and stupid. But let's say they had explained the issue to me, and opened the door, and explained to me who she was, the kid from the Wizard of Oz, I probably could've helped.

Since then, many crises have come and gone, demanding but not receiving my counsel. I won't mention the lesser lights because of their families' continued grief. But I can think of writers, politicians, and movie stars that I could've helped. Of course there's a huge name, Michael Jackson, not a lesser light. He needed a lot of help, all along the way, which I would've been happy to provide. But in his case, it being a matter of years, I might've needed a job in the same town. Or, who knows, I might've cleared him up right away and gotten back home right away.

OK, I can't help Michael now, or Elvis, or Judy, but there's plenty of celebrities in trouble today. I read the Huffington Post, so I know. Whether they'll contact me or not, that I don't know. I only know that if they did, it would only benefit them.

It'd be nice to be known, not for my own benefit or ego, of course, but for of the positive good I could be doing. Some famous person – maybe an actor, singer, a writer, someone in despair – wouldn't have to linger but could simply say, "What about that guy with the blog? Get him!" Then I would take a few days off, go there and get everything worked out. Everyone would be happy. Everyone would win.

Happy Belated New Year

Sorry I'm a day late on my New Year's greetings to you. I was making rather merry yesterday, thrilled as I always am to see the calendar flip and the end of my life inch that much closer.

But I got up today and knew I needed to get it done. By "it" I mean the graphic, which is a great one. There it is, then, your Happy New Year card from me. Assuming you're not one of the lucky readers who got a French Silk Pie from Perkins from me or a box of Omaha Steaks, I hope you'll be just as happy with this card.

I like it. This is actually a very old graphic, probably from the '20s, with the color added by me. That's pretty arch for the '20s, isn't it? With the baby kicking the old man's ass. I've never seen that before.

Speaking of the French Silk Pies, I got some really nice thank you notes on those. Really nice. One guy was especially touching, saying he was planning to end it all at Christmas. Thinking no one cared, etc. This is where it gets good: He's in another state and I had to have it shipped to him. A true friend of the blog, kind of clingy, yes. Seems that he has very few friends and so he follows me around the internet. Somehow he learned my real name, you know the story. He shows up at Facebook, Twitter, and was even going to drive to my place till I told him the roads were slick. Long story short: He was on a chair, rope around his neck, the whole thing, when UPS rang the bell. Somehow he came to his senses just enough to get off the chair and open the door. You probably guessed it, it was my French Silk Pie, and he didn't kill himself.

As for our "friendship," I know he's reading this, so I'm going to be diplomatic.

Some of the other thank you notes were from normal folks, a lot less desperate, but equally as thankful. I got a very conventional message from a guy who knows what boundaries mean and is by no means a borderline stalker or worse. He wrote: "Thank you, kind sir, for the lovely gift of the French Silk Pie. I and my family enjoyed it to a great extent during our tres jovial and conventional Christmas. We know at this time of year a great many people are suffering and in want. Fortunately, that is not our problem, being flush as we are. Your gift merely added to our wondrous bounty. C'est our sincere hope that you have all the best the season has to offer. Remembering you in our every prayer avec praise et thanksgiving. Mr. J____ DeV____, France." Isn't that fantastic? A friend in France was happy for a French Silk Pie from America! They probably grow on trees over there.

I wonder what they're all gonna do next year! Since I'm planning on giving the gallon jug of Tabasco next year! Which, you may not know, are $40 a gallon plus a fortune for shipping! Pass it 'round the table and everyone take a hit. That's how I drink mine.

Whatever happens, though, if you get gifts from me or not -- and most people don't -- it's my vow, my sincere hope, to keep coming up with things like this, the New Year's card and so forth, to brighten up your day throughout 2014.

The Chilling Hand of Death

I hadn't been with my new best friend, Death, for well over a week. I was halfway relieved, and halfway afraid, too, for the separation. Afraid, because I don't know that many celebrities, and when you get to know one, something of their effulgence wears off on you even if you're not trying. I saw Ed Begley, Jr. in an airport once, so I know what I'm talking about.

I didn't see Death because I was out of town, so I wasn't available. And apparently everyone survived where I was. Then when I got back, he dropped by, telling me he had some local runs to make and asking if I wanted to tag along. I was all like, "How many times can I be found at the scene of multiple deaths without the cops thinking I'm involved, even if I'm not?" He gave a wink and said, "Don't worry." I took that in the obvious way: If a potential crime doesn't involve issuing speeding tickets, it's way down the list.

Before we left, I had the thought, It's a little cold, not freezing but not comfortable. So I packed a few things and we hit the road, me driving, with his black mist hovering over the road in front of me. Thankfully, he stopped at lights, a nod to my obsession with public safety and laws.

Finally, we found our way to the seedy part of town, one of the seedy parts, and a gang of psychos had taken the field in one of their endless turf wars. I was comfortable in a regular dress shirt, but when Death hovered up over the field, and the truncheons were flying and several gang members lay dead, I felt a slight chill. I put on a sweater and a light jacket.

I asked Death where to next. He whispered, "There's a cop killer on the loose." I thought, Good God, I can't have prior knowledge of this and do nothing. But since nothing had yet happened, and I didn't know the particulars, what could I do? I followed Death, then parked some distance from the scene of the crime, when, Here came a car squealing around the corner, an obvious speeder being pursued by a cop! He was shooting for the wheels but hit the driver in the head.

The car swerved out of control and flipped and took out some guy's white picket fence. The other perp was out and in a gun battle with the cop, managing by some lucky shot to hit him right between the eyes. I raced to the scene and saw it was too late; the officer was bled dry. I made a mental note: Life is tough. Then as I ran I felt a chill and put on a heavier jacket.

Next, we were on the scene at a fancy hotel. Lucky floor 13, as it turned out. A businessman was at his desk, ruling proudly over his vast domain, that office, and berating his son for being a good for nothing shiftless wastrel. The son addressed him in a respectful way: "Father, I'm sorry life has come to this, me being such a monumental disappointment to both Mother and you." It was all very melodramatic, as Dad waved off the son's apology but refused to embrace him and weep over him.

In my opinion, he should have cried out, "My son, I love you with an unending love. You are the joy of my life." Instead, he smacked his own head and hissed, "Plus you're dumb as a sack of hammers," at which point the hammer clicked on the son's gun, a stubby little thing, perhaps sawed off, and he became a suicide all over the office. I glanced up and saw red splatter on the mirror, causing me such a chill that I simply had to put on a heavier coat.

Last, and this was the worst one of all for me, we were in the hospital room of a lady, older but not completely old, dying of cancer. Some family was milling around in the hall, a daughter was swabbing the woman's lips with a little pink sponge, and their minister was sitting in the corner, examining his fingernails and wringing his hands.

Death and I, both in mist form, were in the corner. I was a little nervous, not so much for the family but for myself; my mist was a little too close to the sharps disposal bin and I started worrying that some might get in it, then when I rematerialized I might have a used syringe or razor blade in my spleen.

Death kept checking his watch, until the appointed time came. He hovered over and enclosed the woman, who breathed her last. The monitor went flat and everyone could hear a sustained beep. The family came running in, the daughter with the swab stopped in a hush, a nurse checked her watch and pronounced the exact time aloud and clearly, and the minister saw an opening and opened his book. It was such an awesome moment that I felt the world's worst chill hit me, the world's worst. Quickly, I drifted back down the hall and put on my coveralls and heaviest coat.

Death caught up with me. We made a beeline for the car, as quick as I could with so many sweaters, jackets, and coats weighing me down, not to mention the coveralls. He was ready to roll but I said, "No!" I've also been having trouble keeping my feet warm, so I had to change my socks right then and there ... or I'd never make it.

Dead Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up
Walt's Suicide -- Death by Water
The Gaping Maw of Death (Woof! Woof!) My Picnic With Death

Walt's Suicide -- Death By Water

My new best friend Death (see links below) is a busy fellow. Everyday -- virtually everyday -- I read of his exploits in the paper and online. He takes down a maniac holed up in a mountain shed (yea!), or he's snuffing out the life of a baby at the hands of abusive clowns (boo!). Clearly, Death, with the nature of his work, doesn't have the same social mores and scruples that I was conditioned with. Who's right, who's wrong? I guess he has to be right, not just because of cause and effect, but because of his rootedness in nature, whereas I'm obviously socialized and sentimental.

But that's a discussion for another day, which may or may not come, because I'm not feeling so well myself. Although I have to say, if Death kills me, I'm going to seriously reevaluate our growing friendship. Although, furthermore, who knows if I might enjoy the afterlife even more, when I'm finally reunited with my grandparents and dad somewhere in the sky, on a cloud without the fear of monthly bills I can't pay.

Anyway, I asked Death -- how about it? -- could I go with him on one of his runs? To my delight, he said yes. It was just a matter of temporarily transforming me into a form of mist, since being merely flesh and blood is not the best way to go on these runs. He sat at my table and mistified himself; I could see just a vague, light black mist in the air. Suddenly, I also was a mist, but more white. There would be no way to tell us apart, save for the color of the mist and the fact that I was here and he was there.

His run this night was to a downtown hotel in the big city 40 miles west of here. It was one of the upper floors, an office where a guy, older and depressed looking, was wringing his hands. I'm big on making snap judgments about people, so I could see he was clearly in deep trouble, likely some financial malfeasance, or political shenanigans, or they were bearing down on him for breaking serious laws of some other sort, or he was complicit in a sexual matter involving himself and a younger mistress. Whether she's underage, barely legal, or what, I don't know. I'm guessing she's probably in her 30s, old enough to know better.  And there's his wife, a fat old biddy, sitting home somewhere, about to sic the lawyers on his ass. Or it could have been he had weird fetishes I could never guess, although I didn't see any tattoos or piercings.

Death and I -- clearly invisible to the guy -- hovered in the corner. I watched the guy toss and turn in his chair, sweat all over his forehead, his hair very wet. I had to sympathize with him, even though he looked like the kind of guy who'd step over me for a dime; I'm just naturally sympathetic, a nice guy; it's my cross to bear, again, my own blasted conditioning. I just had to remember, there was nothing I could do to help. In fact, I tried to hover down to him, but it was like I banged up against a force field.

What I witnessed next is the crux of the matter. And if you don't want to hear about a successful, agonizing suicide, please read no further. I write none of this out of jest or to celebrate. Because I feel the guy's life was still worth living. He could've given his wife the Cadillacs and jewels, he could have plea-bargained on the financial malfeasance, or if it was big enough, he could've endured the shame of a public slap on the wrist. But at those points of the worst depression, of course you're not always thinking of "could'ves." This guy was only thinking of escape. And Death was only thinking his number was up, time to die. I saw a look in Death's misty eye, like an evil hypnotist.

The guy -- let's call him Walt -- had an elaborate suicide machine installed in his office, just for occasions like this. It was pipes and a faucet. He was going to flood his office! He reached over and, with an unusually feminine hand in appearance, twisted the knob full blast. I had to reflect: Wrists are made to connect your hand to your arm, not to kill yourself with. But water gushed everywhere, making the floor wet and no doubt promised mold for the whole hotel for the foreseeable future. Walt sat in his chair motionless, then on second thought pulled out a final cigar and lit up.

Excruciating time passed, the office continuing to flood. I looked over at the door. It seemed to have a good seal at the bottom. The windows were shut with a good seal, too, and waterproof glass, so they weren't about to break. Then the water was to his knees, to his hips, to his chest, to his neck, etc. Suddenly, whether he was having second thoughts or what, he was out of his chair, swimming desperately around the room. He had a purpose, which I took to get to the spigot to turn it off. But he couldn't do it, and I was trapped behind the force field. Even were I to break free, how does white mist operate a spigot?

The look of desperation and terror on his face was the worst thing I've ever seen. A memory seared in my mind, likely to endure the rest of the month. I glanced at Death. He still had that hypnotist look. He would make one hell of a levitator. With those eyes he could sell moonshine to Mother Teresa, had he not already killed her. I looked back at Walt, swimming like crazy. I started thinking, a bunch of water gathered together weighs a ton, and it was almost up to the upper wallpaper line. Walt was on his back, kicking and gasping for air near the light fixture.

At that point, I knew Walt was going to drown. But, wait, what's this? The floor suddenly gave way from the weight of the water! And right down went the whole works, office, Walt, and water all. We hovered downward and the poor dude was dead from the fall, a broken neck. The force field was totally gone, but I was too late to help. Alarms were going off everywhere, it was nutzoid. The police came and rounded up the usual suspects, who all had great alibis.

Back home, back in my body, with Death again at the table, we reflected on the journey. I commented that their alibis, unlike the office in the end, were completely watertight.

Links:
Death -- I Now Pronounce You Dead
Out Drinking with Death
Death Goes to the Dentist with Me
Death -- When Your Number's Up

Guns Guns: Kill Kill Kill Maniac Die

Our dear country, the United States of America, is being overrun by maniacal killers. Hardly a month goes by but an original killer followed by several copycats strikes, with the hideousness of their deeds sending our collective shock level to an all time high.

Gone, apparently, are the days when people knew better. Seriously, I remember a time when maniacs sat in rocking chairs rocking back and forth, intellectually unable to even say the word gun; they weren't imagining a massacre. And if he felt like committing suicide, he just did it -- he didn't take anyone with him. Those were the days. They'd find another guy hanging in the barn and that was it.

More or less, of course, you can't help it if you're a maniac. But the current breed of maniac seems to be in an entirely different class. In addition to being a maniac, they're very cold and calculating, able to assemble an arsenal as big as Fort Knox and keep it all on the sly, so that no one even has the slightest clue that they've turned their lonely apartment into an armed compound. Things have obviously changed when it comes to knowing our neighbors. We need more nosy neighbors, like on "Bewitched."

But not having that, we need to do something else. My suggestion is that we do anything that works, measured of course by a significant time passing in which no one pulls anything terrible.

I remember when I was a kid, somebody kept an eye on you. We were all pretty much normal -- I feel I was a normal kid, although, arguably a true maniac doesn't know he is one; to him everyone else is crazy. I, however, have looked at the issue of my own sanity "from both sides now" (Judy Collins), so I know, having that added level of perspective, that I am certifiably sane. I've seen my profile in the Akashic records.

I was going to say, back when I was a kid, in addition to them (family members) keeping an eye on us, they made sure we had the teaching, the grounding, to know the difference between right and wrong, and the consequences for doing wrong. And I haven't forgotten it. Grandpa and Grandma, from the time we were in our cradles till we were dropping out of junior high, would sing us a little song, full of good values:

You'll be a happy little fellow, yes you will,
If you don't steal and you don't kill.
You'll stay out of prison and you'll stay out of jail,
You'll be a happy little fellow, yes you will.

There was no second verse. You just repeated it forever, that one verse, making it easy enough to remember. Just one verse, but look at the values packed in there. Happiness, a guarantee of happiness. An if statement, happiness coming by refraining from stealing and killing. An alternative consequence, going to prison or jail, which, thank goodness, I was able to avoid.

Of course, most of our maniacs these days end up killing from one to three hundred other people before they kill themselves, so they're not worried about jail or prison. What the answer to that is, I'm not entirely sure. It might call for a second verse, to address the changed conditions. Or very very severe gun control, getting guns out of the hands of everyone. They say "law-abiding" citizens should be able to have a big arsenal, which is fine till they decide (usually without letting us know) to suddenly become criminals.

A guy I know said the maniacs could do the same dastardly killing with a pocket knife. To which I say, you can barely clean a fish with a pocket knife! You idiot.

All Is Forgiven When You're Dead

A local TV channel's weatherman committed suicide. True story. I hadn't personally ever heard of him, since I don't watch that channel, but of course I feel sad that something, whatever it might have been led him to do that.

I heard about it on one of the competitor channels, and they gave a nice presentation on him. Apparently he was something of a cut-up on air, since they had him flapping like a wild chicken, dressed in a Superman costume, and so forth. Perhaps not the most flattering images, but they meant well, that he was well known and respected for various antics.

OK, but I have some objections. If the people on the competing channel aren't watching the other guys' shows, how do they know about him? And how did they become so chummy all of a sudden, since it's usually a cut throat business. Even while they were praising the deceased weatherman they were still using slogans for themselves like, "The most accurate weather report," as if to say the competitors' weather sucked. Maybe that's what pushed him over the edge, everyone questioning his accuracy.

The whole thing has been on my mind, as you can tell. It reminds me of the old truth that once you're dead, everything's forgiven. You can kill a hundred people, but once they get done executing you in the electric chair, you're in for an honorable burial. No one comes around and kicks your body. At least in America. In Libya they probably do. Or Iran. I think it makes a certain amount of sense. After all, it is your body. Why not pulverize it if you were that bad?

The weatherman, of course, wasn't a bad guy. According to what they're saying. They didn't mention why he committed suicide. Maybe no one knows. But they are definitely promoing the various signs of suicidal behavior, that the rest of us might be vigilant in the face of similar behavior in our loved ones. So that's a positive.

When they started promoing the upcoming story of the dead weatherman, I figured it was going to be some old 80-90 year old retired weatherman who was beloved in the area. Because I believed they used the term "dearly loved" or "well loved." So I was expecting to see an old black and white picture of the first weatherman in the area. But then it turned out to be this young guy, 41, flapping like a chicken, and I thought, "Whoa." They used the word suicide and I was thinking that's unusual! Who's happier than a weatherman? No one! Maybe the sports guys, whose constant happiness lies in their superficial approach to life.

The Last Will And Testament Of Edgar D. Scuzworth

We're almost to Halloween once again, which always reminds me of the same thing, the kids of this one town getting their costumes and candy. Because they had a real champion in Edgar D. Scuzworth, of blessed memory.

But of course it would've never happened had his family treated him right. I feel like calling them a bunch of dirty names, and maybe you can guess what they'd be, but since there's a good chance the kids will be reading this, I'll just call them idiots, morons, and goofballs.

In my opinion, it'd completely idiotic if you're in for a big inheritance but then you're not patient with the person who is your benefactor, even to the point of wishing him dead, or worse, trying to hasten his death. Some of the idiots, morons, and goofballs thought they could speed it along, then get their grubby hands on his fortune, a considerable fortune ... of exactly $80,000,000.06. That's right, $80 million and change!

Of course it's always best to love our loved ones, money or not, but that very elementary, common sense concept had eluded Mr. Scuzworth's family. There was his crummy daughter, his terrible son, and his hateful wife. But it's not like he didn't see it coming. A guy with his brainpower -- he was very smart -- knows what's going on. He was smart enough himself when his father died to get the fortune, old money, from the famous Scuzworth Tire Company of the 1930s.

Mr. Scuzworth took care of the money over the years, he didn't waste it. He took out enough to live on and that was it. I think that's smart, except it created resentment in his family. His crummy daughter always thought she needed more, his terrible son was never content with his pittance of an allowance, and his hateful wife hated him for his frugality. She wanted to dress like the other society ladies. La-dee-dah! And that's the way it went all the way up to the time Mr. Scuzworth got sick and was about to die.

Well, to make a long story somewhat shorter, a necessity in this day of short attention spans, when people would rather have their stories short and pithy, even to the point of leaving out vital information, such as the various murderous intrigues and plots the family concocted to kill the old man off, interesting to me if not you, at some point he wrote out his "Last Will and Testament."

So there they were, Crummy, Terrible, and Hateful, gathered for the reading of the will. (His death was painful and tumultuous so I shudder to describe it.) The old family retainer, so old he had dust on his toupee, read it in his slow, halting voice.

To my loving daughter, who has wished me dead for years, I leave the grand total of two cents.

To my loving son, who has always been spiteful and had it in for me, I leave the grand total of two cents.

And to my loving wife, who stayed with me through thick and thin, always thinking I might die more quickly and leave her the family fortune, I leave the grand total of two cents.

So, you see, that takes care of the six cents. But the real shocker was what he bequeathed to the children of the town:

To the children of the town, I will that $80 million be kept in trust, so that to perpetuity they can have a great Halloween. The money will be paid out annually to Halloween stores to keep the children in good costumes and well-equipped in other ways to have a great holiday.

Pretty cool, huh? Apparently he had one joy in life, since his own kids were so bad, and that was the kids who came around at Halloween for Trick or Treat. They were scared to death of him, being a scary looking old guy, and he liked that. And so it is, to this day, the little town has about 40 Halloween stores that set up for two or three months a year. With around 200 kids in town, the stores, to get the money, really load them up with costumes.

They also have Scuzworth Days, including a big parade of the kids in their costumes, financed by the Halloween stores, who then write it off their taxes.

What happened to his hateful son, his crummy wife, and his terrible daughter? Suicide, boom, boom, boom!