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June 11, 1996

Please God, I'm Only 27!
Copyright 1996 - Greg Bulmash - All Rights Reserved


In honor of Abigail Van Buren, better known as Dear Abby, running "Please God, I'm Only 17" for the one billionth time in her daily column, I offer this parody...

The day I died was an ordinary work day. How I wish I hadn't grabbed for that last muffin at the breakfast meeting. But I was too cool to care about cholesterol. I'd conned my wife into letting me fry three eggs in bacon grease for breakfast. "Don't worry about it," I'd said, "all the guys eat like this."

At 5:00 my computer beeped at me and I started dragging my ass out of the building. I was free until 8:00 a.m. tomorrow. I shuffled out the the parking lot, ready to go home, knowing my wife would be out with the girls and that meant I could eat whatever I wanted tonight.

It doesn't matter what food item I was thinking of when it happened, even if it might have been a double-thick chocolate milkshake, but I got so excited that I foolishly started running toward my car. The last thing I remember was someone shouting "hey, lard-ass, slow down." I heard the deafening silence and felt my heart seize-up in my chest. My whole torso seemed to be flooding with pain and I heard myself gurgle.

Suddenly I woke up. People were standing around me. Some strange man had his lips on mine. Then someone started hitting my chest, but I couldn't feel it. The paramedics came and then had to call more paramedics to come help lift me onto the gurney. "Hey," I wanted to shout, "don't pull that sheet over my head. I've got a date with a pizza tonight. I'm supposed to fall asleep in front of the television. I haven't eaten yet. I can't be dead!"

Later I was placed in a shipping crate. My wife had to identify my body. When she leaned down to lay one final kiss on my forehead, she put her hand on my stomach to support herself and even though I was dead, the pressure made me release some of the gas that had been fermenting in my digestive tract. It smelled worse than if I'd had a feast of chili and cauliflower.

The funeral was a total disaster. Everyone who walked by the crate... I mean casket, pushed on my stomach. Soon the funeral chapel stunk so much that everyone had to leave and they couldn't get the pallbearers back in to carry me out to the grave until the air had cleared.

Please don't bury me! I'm not dead! I can still see! I can still hear! I'm still a little gassy and they're going to close the box!!!! Oh God, please, if you'll give me just one more chance, I promise I'll excercise and eat right. I'll snack on apples instead of chocolate muffins, I'll eat those fake eggs you get in a milk carton and cook them with that fat-free spray stuff, I'll go to aerobics class and actually work out instead of just watching all the women in front of me bend over, I'll even eat... ugghh... salad. Just give me another shot at this.

Please God, I'm only 27!

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