Work, Death, and Light Bulbs

I don’t plan to work a day after I die – I don’t care how many times my boss calls me.

I’m dead – that’s it – no notice, except the one in the obits. Please say something nice. Lie if you have to. Don’t make me haunt you.

No, no work days, after I’ve gone to the great (fill in the blank) in the (fill in the blank.)

Especially as I’ll probably be cremated.

 

“Sift him into the working clothes boys.”

“Whew! We’re gonna have to start calling this guy, Dusty.”

That’s no way to urn a living.

By the way, puns are allowed after you’re dead.

As is the proud tradition among males in my family, I didn’t figure I’d live long enough to retire. The tradition probably began because a whole bunch of us never did.

Now I’ve lived past that heart issue at 50 that all Hausers get, so I’m starting to see life from a whole new perspective. Now instead of a sudden death in the prime of life, I’m looking at years of old age, eating cat food, and starving in the cold.

Quite a comfort.

And now they’re taking away my incandescent bulbs. How are you supposed to stay warm on a winter night cozying up to a compact florescent light? You can stick your finger right into that coil thing, and not even warm the rest of your hand.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m ready to love the CFL. I’m already fond of gloomy days and Cheerios without the milk, why shouldn’t I love CFLs?

Of Course, I would like CFLs better if any of the following were true.

1) They were the most efficient form of light bulb.

2) They worked reliably and well.

3) They worked in my 3-way lamp.

4) They weren’t a major cause of migraine headaches.

 

5) They didn’t pose a deadly toxin threat (mercury) to all living beings – I gotta admire ambitious toxins.

Maybe this reason is not so important.

6) They weren’t pushed on us by government.

7) They weren’t pushed on government by a huge corporation in bed with politicians.

8) They didn’t look so stupid (Okay, I’m ready to let that one go.)

9) My power bill wasn’t higher because somebody decided to pack up cases of these toxic, inefficient boondoggles, and ship them free-of-charge, to poison the far-too-nearby homes of wastrel (like that word – even when it doesn’t fit,) neighbors who make more money than me.

They’re also hard to cuddle up to. Can you imagine little Cindy-Lou Whoo down in Whooville, staring wistfully at a Christmas tree full of curly-queued, migraine-causing, occasionally dimming, mercury-wheezing, Big-government-and-corporate-mandated lights?

Who needs a Grinch?

Who, by-the-way never seemed to have a job, in spite of his posh mountain-side villa, monster sled, and all-purpose, reindeer-impersonating dog.

And the Grinch didn’t have to die, get cremated, nothing!

Hey, I can be a mean one!