Impressing the Mortician

Jeannette - Seattle, Washington
Entered on June 11, 2009
Age Group: 30 - 50
Themes: carpe diem

I believe in using my body up here on this earth—in wearing it out with sheer shocking life—I believe in impressing the mortician.

I can see it all now:

Fielding, Reynolds the mortician will shout, flushed with a pinkness even a quality embalming fluid couldn’t expect to maintain. Put your lunches down! You’ll never believe this!

The mortician stands matador-proud at the side of my gurney, holds the sheet by the collar and whips it off me with a flourish. Somebody’s finally got it right!

Fielding looks to Reynolds. Reynolds looks to the mortician. The mortician eyes me swimmingly.

See this woman here, the mortician says, his mouth gone soft with desire. Note the exfoliation on these slender arms; she came to the banquet of love washed clean up to the elbows. And these fingernails, their worn shortness suggests she regularly scrutched the head of her beloved in the bath—very playful that!

Say boys how about these gams—these little chuggers turned down free cable car rides all over town—she knew the human foot was not designed for the gas pedal. And look at the marbling on the lass—that’s quality fat. We’re talking Godiva, Toblerone chocolate. No cutting corners when it came to cholesterol, she hit the butterslut limit.

Ah yes, bed-headed to boot, she knew how to nap, how to sleep in, how to surround herself with periodicals and reference materials that would even excite a rubber thumb to full attention. Umm hmm.

And what’s this? Mitral valve prolapse? A heart never murmured any sweeter I’d guess.

Gentleman, this is truly astounding, there’s not a minute left on this body. The pancreas clocks in at a close .47 seconds, that’s it!

The mortician suddenly grows quiet, waves away Fielding and Reynolds, dismisses them for the remainder of the day. Early in the afternoon, the mortician locks up shop, and wends his way homeward—where he sits down to pen—his stunning, first operetta.