Let’s do this.
And then the man next to me on sleeping pills sharts his pants. Loud and wet.
People are only human. I do treasure life. I want that little upchucking baby to grow up healthy and happy. Maybe he won’t find a cure for cancer, but who knows, maybe he’ll run a big company and earn a lot of money that will at least go toward the good of supporting his family—until he gets caught embezzling and cheating on his wife and is sentenced for white-collar crime. Then again, maybe he’ll turn out like the guy who just sharted his pants. We are all still only human. If you’re not alive, and you are a soul floating around in the ether somewhere, you do not get the privilege of sharting your pants. That’s right, I’m saying it is a privilege to shart your pants. To butt-queef. Because butt-queefing means you are alive. I don’t know, but my guess is when you’re dead, you can’t hear loud sounds like a fart or smell bad scents like poo. Or the cougars or possible hookers who come in groups late at night in swanky hotel restaurants reeking of Febreze. Life is a gift.
Back to this whole philosophical, questioning thing I’ve been jagging on: Are people basically good? What are we here for? What happens after we die? All this questioning is a direct result of the emotional scars of my younger years, particularly the loss of my two sisters. It’s not so much a religious thing. I’d like to believe my sisters are in a better place now. But I do understand why some say there is nothing after this life and when you die you are dead and gone.
I spoke to a friend of mine recently who flat-out told me, “There is no God, Bob. Period. No God, no ghosts, no nothin’.” I know quite a few people who are positive that when you die you just “cut to black,” like Tony Soprano in the last episode of The Sopranos . Which sadly brings up memories of James Gandolfini, who also was taken from us much too soon.
But personally, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than just cutting to black. Maybe this has something to do with the family story I’m going to tell now, a story that might be a little chilling to readers, especially if you’re into numerology or astrology. And who isn’t? Awkward pause. C’mon, the zodiac is in our newspapers every day. Okay, not in the New York Times or Wall Street Journal, but I can always rely on the Los Angeles Times for my Taurus emotional temperature.
Here’s the story . . . Two years before I was born, my mom had given birth to full-term healthy twins. And when I say two years before I was born, I mean two years to the day: May 17, 1954. I was born on May 17, 1956. The twins who were born two years earlier were named Robert and Faith. Like I said, they were both born healthy, but the hospital in Philly had recently been infested with dysentery and no one told any of the parents who had given birth that week. I don’t know exactly what happened but as my mother conveys it now, about seven babies died along with the twins. Robert and Faith lived only seven and eight days, respectively.
Then, two years to the day that they were born, I was born—is that an astrologer’s wet dream or what? So that seeming coincidence always stuck with me, and because of it I was very receptive when my sister Andi gave me the book about the soul’s journey through different incarnations. It made sense to me at that time, as if it was all some kind of cosmic do-over. Heartbreaking, and yet I was honored my mom and dad had bestowed the name Robert on me.
To this day, I feel blessed to have been named Robert. Why they named my sister Gay, I don’t know. When she was born in 1946, gay only meant “happy.” The joke we have all heard is “And it still does, baby!!” But with the last name Saget, my sister had it doubly rough as she got older. People can be cruel, even if they are basically good. The fact that our family’s last name rhymes with faggot is obvious and
And then the man next to me on sleeping pills sharts his pants. Loud and wet.
People are only human. I do treasure life. I want that little upchucking baby to grow up healthy and happy. Maybe he won’t find a cure for cancer, but who knows, maybe he’ll run a big company and earn a lot of money that will at least go toward the good of supporting his family—until he gets caught embezzling and cheating on his wife and is sentenced for white-collar crime. Then again, maybe he’ll turn out like the guy who just sharted his pants. We are all still only human. If you’re not alive, and you are a soul floating around in the ether somewhere, you do not get the privilege of sharting your pants. That’s right, I’m saying it is a privilege to shart your pants. To butt-queef. Because butt-queefing means you are alive. I don’t know, but my guess is when you’re dead, you can’t hear loud sounds like a fart or smell bad scents like poo. Or the cougars or possible hookers who come in groups late at night in swanky hotel restaurants reeking of Febreze. Life is a gift.
Back to this whole philosophical, questioning thing I’ve been jagging on: Are people basically good? What are we here for? What happens after we die? All this questioning is a direct result of the emotional scars of my younger years, particularly the loss of my two sisters. It’s not so much a religious thing. I’d like to believe my sisters are in a better place now. But I do understand why some say there is nothing after this life and when you die you are dead and gone.
I spoke to a friend of mine recently who flat-out told me, “There is no God, Bob. Period. No God, no ghosts, no nothin’.” I know quite a few people who are positive that when you die you just “cut to black,” like Tony Soprano in the last episode of The Sopranos . Which sadly brings up memories of James Gandolfini, who also was taken from us much too soon.
But personally, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than just cutting to black. Maybe this has something to do with the family story I’m going to tell now, a story that might be a little chilling to readers, especially if you’re into numerology or astrology. And who isn’t? Awkward pause. C’mon, the zodiac is in our newspapers every day. Okay, not in the New York Times or Wall Street Journal, but I can always rely on the Los Angeles Times for my Taurus emotional temperature.
Here’s the story . . . Two years before I was born, my mom had given birth to full-term healthy twins. And when I say two years before I was born, I mean two years to the day: May 17, 1954. I was born on May 17, 1956. The twins who were born two years earlier were named Robert and Faith. Like I said, they were both born healthy, but the hospital in Philly had recently been infested with dysentery and no one told any of the parents who had given birth that week. I don’t know exactly what happened but as my mother conveys it now, about seven babies died along with the twins. Robert and Faith lived only seven and eight days, respectively.
Then, two years to the day that they were born, I was born—is that an astrologer’s wet dream or what? So that seeming coincidence always stuck with me, and because of it I was very receptive when my sister Andi gave me the book about the soul’s journey through different incarnations. It made sense to me at that time, as if it was all some kind of cosmic do-over. Heartbreaking, and yet I was honored my mom and dad had bestowed the name Robert on me.
To this day, I feel blessed to have been named Robert. Why they named my sister Gay, I don’t know. When she was born in 1946, gay only meant “happy.” The joke we have all heard is “And it still does, baby!!” But with the last name Saget, my sister had it doubly rough as she got older. People can be cruel, even if they are basically good. The fact that our family’s last name rhymes with faggot is obvious and
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