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Forgotten Man Found Mummified in Home

By Gail Griffin From Issue No. 1

“The partially mummified body of a man dead for more than a year has been found in a chair in front of his television, which was still on . . . . The home’s dry air had preserved his features, morgue assistant Jeff Bacchus said. ‘You could see his face. He still had hair on his head.’”

Northern (MI) Express

Well, you took your own sweet time, didn’t you?

Should have known none of my worthless kids

would check up on me, not to mention my moron

of a nephew. Surprised you geniuses didn’t hear from

the lowlife next door or that busybody wife of his.

He’s always grousing that the TV’s too loud and she’s

got way more time on her hands than anybody needs.

Took burst pipes to get you college boys out here,

did it? Well, don’t be calling that plumber of mine unless

you want to pay an arm and two legs and then get told

you need a whole new pump. You tell my smarty-pants

daughter what you said about the dry air. She’s always

on me to get a damned humidifier, like we need a lot more

humidity around here. Hell, after Memorial Day you

might as well stop breathing. Global warming my sweet

ass, in July it’s warm enough to boil your eyeballs

and always has been. Long Island Sound rises up

and heads this way, I’ll be the first one in.  You tell that

to Mr. Al used-to-be-the-next-president Gore.

And what are you staring at, Jughead? Course I got

my hair. Some reason I shouldn’t? Got my fingernails                            

too, and my toenails and most of my teeth and both of my

testiculars, you care to check? I got my right mind too,

so don’t be thinking about pulling any stunts. Do something

useful for once and turn that squawk box off. There’s not 

a damned thing on there worth any sane person’s time,

and believe you me I know what I’m talking about. Idiots

on parade, one after another, morning noon and night,      

twenty-four-seven. Come to think of it, maybe you’d

enjoy that, Numbnuts. You could join right in. Here, take

the chair, it’s all yours. If it’s just all right with you boy wizards,

I’m going to get me a slice of shut-eye. Don’t let the door

hit you in your bony ass on the way out.         

About Gail Griffin More From Issue No. 1