“In this world, the only thing that is certain is death and taxes.” An overheard pickup line used by Benjamin Franklin on a buxom waitress at a go-go bar in Boston.My mother phoned me recently to say that she found a box of mouldy crap while renovating my old bedroom. I liked my old bedroom while growing up. It had walls, a ceiling and a door that locked from the inside - like all good bedrooms. I shared the space with my older brother. He punched me in the face once, like all good brothers. But back to the box of crap: It contained an essay I wrote in finger paint while in kindergarten. And now the essay is reprinted in its entirety, thanks to some wrangling from my literary agent, Uncle Wallace of Espanola. Enjoy.
An Essay about Life & Death
By Kevin J Pecore III
Deth is not funy, but lif can be hilarius.
The End (hold for applause)
That’s classic, regardless of the spelling. Okay, so then there’s death, ya? That clumsy white elephant in the room that few acknowledge even while the bleached behemoth is making an ass of itself knocking over coffee tables, openly hitting on chicks, and crushing the house pets. Hum. Mortality - it’s a peculiar deal. The second anything is born (created) - either through Immaculate Conception, or the old fashion way, like on a couch, in a Dodge Caravan, or two hundred leagues under the sea, the gift of life becomes a bit of an albatross - a terminal affliction, yes? Many people are terribly distressed over this bum deal. For some, the notion of their own mortality may only hit them later on in life, so they panic, stop smoking, gorge on fruit, and then climb a mountain as a strategy to cheat or prolong the inevitable or accentuate the thrill of living.
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