I read the online-obituaries in my hometown paper every day. Why? Well, it’s a way to keep up with the folks there.
I learned to do this several years ago after one too many conversations with someone back home.
“Bob, you ever see Larry Plegmtrickle?”
“No, man, Larry died three years ago.”
“Yep, ingrown nose hair—doctors down at Duke tried to remove it but his head caved in.”
“Oh, lawww, you know it didn’t.”
Anyway, that’s why I read the obits—trying to keep up with the folks that have departed. But in looking at the obituaries, one thing has me flummoxed. More and more, the obituaries are accompanied by a picture of the deceased. And in all but just a few, the danged people are smiling like they just had sex or had won a free meal at Outback.
Does that make any sense?
“Myrtle, I’ve got your test results back. It looks like you’ve got cancer in your thingy. And I’m afraid you have about three weeks to live.”
“Well, hot damn Doc, that’s the best news I’ve heard all week. Here, take a picture.”
Of course, the other side of that are the pictures of those people who look like they were on one of those Carnival Cruises where everybody contracted a stomach virus in ten foot seas when the ship lost power and they were feeding everybody bowls of Cream of Kaopectate Soup.
So, I haven’t decided. When I cash it all in, do I want to have my picture in the paper? I don’t know—maybe the thing to do is to include a picture of my dog. She was a whole lot prettier and possibly more well-behaved. And she wouldn’t be grinnin’ or lookin’ like she was about to hurl.