| Movember 09: Can't Think of a Title |
| Friday, November 09, 2007 |
 The mustache --catfishy and teenagerish though it may be-- has, at least, made me feel more like my old self. Rather, my future self.
I had intended to grow a mustache when I turned grey. Be a bit of a silver fox. Chase skirts in the retirement home , stumble about the Bingo parlor in a morphine stupor, upset people at the church meetings and reflect on how everyone I love has died. Perhaps even head down to the old boneyard to dance upon their graves. Humble plans, to be sure, but I would need to somehow occupy my time. At least until my robot body is ready.
I even have plans for my death. I figure that I'll catch some utterly fatal type of cancer, go into the woods, look up at the big awful sky, reflect on how pointless the whole endeavor actually was, and shoot myself in the head. Then, as I've made it very clear to my friends, my corpse is to be donated to necrophiliacs. At least the parts that haven't been eaten by animals. I've heard they start with the genitals so I'm not sure how much fun a necrophiliac could have. But my mouth should be intact and there would even be a new hole in the back of my skull so . . . I'm sure they could use their imagination.
And, as usual, you can help the fight against prostate cancer - perhaps helping to ensure that it will not be the one that causes my eventual suicide -- by sponsoring my gala night, man of Movember, Hitler mustache here. I would like another gala ticket. I fear I may get lonely -- and beat up -- without company.Labels: movember |
posted by bobdobbs @ 2:16 PM  |
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