Sordid Lives

I really hope my roommate doesn’t mind me sharing a few stories from this week.

He is in good spirits considering everything. It is bad enough to have to go through the loss of a parent, but then to have to put up with that weird, country, white-trash “thing” that you spent your entire life getting away from, makes it all that much harder.

He calls me today in a panic, because, in his haste, he forgot to pack any cologne and is now faced with the unavoidable truth that he might have to wear Brut. I pleaded with him; don’t do it. It will only make things worse. I told him that there has to be some old bottle of Charlie or something lying around. I mean, rub some all temperature Cheer behind your ear before going the Brut route. You might as well be wearing Stetson (the cologne and the hat).

He finally convinced them that they were not going to be able to play Ricky Skaggs at the service. Instead, they are going to play a CD of hymns and possibly play Ricky a little later.

I won’t even go into how the father’s shirt wasn’t ironed and the shirt had to come off and then get ironed. I am sure it wasn’t as dramatic as I make it sound but a recent episode of Desperate Housewives comes to mind.

They all decided no trinkets in the casket, which is a good thing. Otherwise, he may have been buried in a white t-shirt with a pocket in the front for his cigarettes, and a bottle of Mountain Dew.

There is one other story that, not even I, can share over the Internet, but if asked in person I may be willing to share.

I hope he really does find these stories as humorous as I do. I know he is in a lot of pain and anxiety but, like me, deals with these things in humor. Otherwise, we would go totally insane.