An X-mas Carrel (Part I)

So this is death. You seem oddly detached. Detached from your worldly cares, your thoughts. Your numb and barely perciptible body rises, seemingly of its own accord and floats toward a brilliant and intense white light that eminates from an unseen source. You move toward the light -- instinctively, it seems -- unencumbered by your earthly shell. You are a disembodied spirit -- sheathed only in a thin layer of ectoplasm.

You proceed onward toward the light. Is it for hours? For days? Mere nanoseconds? You can't say. Time has no meaning in this eternal realm. You continue toward the light as if conveyed down an infinite tunnel, and gradually you perceive a figure dimly seen in the radiance about it. "Jesus?" you mutter. "Momma?"

"Kill the spot!" an other-worldly voice booms. With a loud, metallic "thunk" the light disappears, plunging you into a dark void. Your eyes begin to refocus, and the figure you'd seen earlier bounces toward you clad in white.

"Hi!" she enthuses. "I'm the angel of personal injury lawsuits! If you'll just sign this release ..." Is that a cheerleader's uniform she's wearing? Slowly, you perceive that it is -- complete with an enormous red "O" from chin to navel.

Happy just to be alive, and numb from head to toe -- including the space between your ears -- you sign, "Avery Mann." And initial. And sign again. "Item ten: there is no item ten." Initial. Sign. Sign. Sign. Notarize. Thumbprint.

"Super!" the alledged angel bubbles. Then, pouting momentarily she says, " I think I was supposed to tell you something..." Almost immediately she brightens again. "Oh, well. No matter," and with that she cartwheels off the stage.

The stage? That's right! You're still on the set of that game show: Theif or No Theif . It's all coming back to you now. You were going to win fabulous prizes, when the pirates attacked you with their little stars ...

"Hey!" the other-worldly voice says. "You better get some of that SPAM-fat offen you. Soaks right through the skin, and it'll make you plumb crazy! Cartman, give this guy a towel."

"You got it, Angelo!"

"We've had trouble with that lot from the very beginning," the voice continues. "I remember when an earring meant you'd survived a shipwreck and a tattoo meant you'd been to the Orient. Not to these whippersnappers! They're the MTV generation. No sense of history. Short attention spans."

"I'm fed up with their eye-patches and peg-legs. And their hooks! Did I mention their hooks? They meant to kill ya, boy. That's for certain. But they've got short attention spans. Broke for lunch, they did. Then they ate half the cocktail weenies they were smotherin' ya with."

"Last I saw 'em, they just wandered off in several directions. Up to no good, I can tell ya that! You can catch 'em unawares early in the mornin' after they been having them all-night rap sessions kids have when they ain't got a clue who they are."

"Rap sessions?" Where did this guy come from??

A stage hand appears, or is he a cartoon? (You may be a little more light-headed than you thought!) You thank Cartman for the towel, and begin wiping the rancid gel from your arms. Good Lord! It's eaten completely through your shirt. Your pants are similarly tattered, and dissolve into rags as you vigorously rub the offensive goo clinging to your legs.

"You can't leave like that!" the anonymous voice in the darkness declares. "Give him that slicker the traffic guys left behind." Two more cartoonish stagehands appear with a rubberized orange parka, which you gratefully accept. "And stay away from the Kilkenny Tavern," the voice continues. "That's where them pirates lurk, most likely."

If there is any foreboding in his voice, it's lost on you. You want a shower ... and some oatmeal.