As the celestial clock keeps insistently ticking, I can’t help but notice more than a few subtle changes in my life. I made the mistake the other day of wearing a camo shirt and tan jeans to the grocery store. A lady and her teen son sheepishly approached. They genuflected and thanked me for my service.
I’m guessing it was for the military, although I never served and, on the bright side, she didn’t end her incorrect assessment of my non-Green Beret years by adding, “…in the Spanish-American War.”
Had a flat a year ago, in front of the gym. Some guy literally ran over as I’m changing my tire and helped. Halfway through, he got tired pumping up the jack and I had to finish for him.
Without me even inhaling to foist a scam, fast food service engineers just automatically now tag on a “Senior Discount,” and, worse, they yell, “I GAVE YOU THE SENIOR DISCOUNT!!!” as if I’m hard of hearing, which, I am.
I used to add, “a pinch,” when referring to my auditory challenges, but, that only causes my 20-year-old daughter to erupt into the Death Scene from “Camille,” pretend faint and place back of hand to forehead as she lay on the linoleum.
The strangest thing I just can’t figure out is why I’m getting all these desperate-sounding life insurance policy offers in my post office box. Math was always my Achilles’ Heel and the numbers seem strange to me. Last week, I got an offer for $17 worth of Whole Life for just $18 a month. I don’t mean to be dark, but I’m guessing they didn’t want to take the chance on the deal and have to eat the postage.
I don’t even know what “Whole Life” is. Had to look it up. It’s pretty simple. You pay a straight monthly fee, and, in my case, I’m hoping it’s for something Old Testament, 800 years. And, if a moose should kill you, you get a fixed payout. Triple, if the moose happens to kill you during an airplane flight.
Actually, damnest thing, I don’t get the $18 payout. Some Italian guy I don’t even know named Ben E. Ficiary gets the $18, probably minus shipping & handling, cost of transporting paper clips from one useless document to another, “office stuff,” and, my favorite, “Ten Percent for The Big Guy…”
Great. Joe Biden, or, worse, his booger-eating son, Hunter, gets my insurance moolah.
Are these insurance giants trying to tell me something? I’m now getting insurance tables that aren’t measured in years, but rather, “…by 11 o’clock this morning, don’t buy unripened fruit, just sayin’…”
I’d have to rob the entire Mafia/Democratic Party to afford one of those “$50 Million Life Insurance Policies For Just Pennies A Day,” that younger people get in the mail. Of course, no matter what your age, the Las Vegas gambling/insurance industry that bets when an 1,800-pound block of ice plummeting at the speed of sound from a Chinese passenger airline porta-potty will fatally hit you atop the noggin’ never mentions that when they say “pennies a day” they actually mean like All The Pennies In The Whole World.
I’m not even close to retiring. I’m still waiting for my ship to sail into port, laden with treasure stolen from Gullible Indigenous People.
Say it with me.
Good band name.
But, right now, it’s not like anyone is going to book a cruise to Crete on what I’m leaving them.
My attorney, Rick Patterson (661-766-5667 for all your SCV legal needs), will be reading my will. “I, John Boston, being of sound mind and body, do hereby …” Rick stops, sighs heavily, realizes he can’t afford to read the rest of my last testament, tosses it on the table and says, “Oh, phooey. Here. You guys fight amongst yourselves…”
Jim Ventress, retired high holy honcho of the SCV Boys & Girls Club, scans the document, which is only one run-on sentence long. He, too, sighs. “A Tootsie Roll Pop,” reads Ventress, whilst moving lips and index finger. “What a giving guy…”
These life insurance offers. That junk mail must get some sort of sweetheart deal with the U.S. Postal Service. Each envelope weighs the same as a mattress. Like I have a spare month to read 488 pages of promotional material. Some of these come-ons sport grinning photographs of what I’m guessing are generic happy relatives, although, in the spirit of Wokeness, I’d like to see a little more ethnic representation. I’d like to get a life insurance offer with a family of Eskimos, all befurred, grinning and holding whale spears. I’d like to see the sled dogs smiling, too. I’d carefully cut out the small photo of the Eskimos and lovingly place it in a Walmart frame, replacing my own hostile-looking family. You know. The one with all the issues?
Bright side, for $17 a month for the rest of my life, to qualify for a one-time payout of $18, my Whole Life buddies don’t require a physical, which is probably for the best. I don’t like going to the doctors. The last time I was there, one young cute nurse noted, “I’ve never seen a spleen on the outside before.”
Another, and I don’t recall asking for her opinion, asked, “Eeeewww. Why does that have hair all over it?”
Well. I had to explain. She was examining my emotional support animal.
What a tone. I think she hurt Old Yeller’s feelings.
You know another thing?
I don’t appreciate these life insurance people penning, in their junk mail, in 72-point type, “HURRY, JOHN! YOU REALLY DON’T WANT TO MISS THIS OFFER!!”
Cripes. The hell I don’t…
Earth history’s most prolific humorist and satirist, John Boston, as of press time, is still with us. Still. Don’t send flowers, or Tootsie Roll Pops, but buy a book at johnbostonbooks.com.