49'ers of the 21st century.
you'd do better to sell yourself to an Arabian Sheikh as his personal
toilet attendant. That'll do too. I've written better than 30 books in
the past 18 months. All of them, I am told, are selling well on
Not a one has my name on it.
But I chose
this life and I'm damned well going to keep soldiering on in it till I
win or they bury me - one or the other. I AM WRITER HEAR ME TYPE!
I'm sixty years old. My brain says I'm 22. My bones say I'm 112. We
humans were not meant to live like this. I am thoroughly convinced that
we were designed to live in lakefront bungalows, to sit on the porch
every evening with a nice warm dog stretched across our feet and to play
banjo till the sun goes down.
It's funny how you get to a point where you're ready to wrap it all
up and get on with the living forever part. I've decided that when we
get back to the new Earth, I'm going to build a big old schooner and
take her out on whatever's left of the ocean. I'm gonna sail from island
to island sampling the cuisine and jamming with whatever passes for a
local pick-up band.
I will of course, take along the Missus and the dog - maybe even a
grandkid or two - even in heaven I can't imagine my kids wanting to hang
out with me for any length of time. I told my Sweet Baboo about my
plans. She told me that it would have to be in heaven before she'd go
out on the ocean in a boat with me at the helm. Mrs. King is not
respectful of my sailing prowess.
I wonder. Will our spouses be as sharp-tongued in heaven as they are
here? Maybe I was imagining the kind of spouses you get in the other
heaven; the one where you have to blow yourself up first and then you
get 70 of them.
Man, that sounds more like the other place to me. I have enough trouble with just the one.
© 2014 by Tom King
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