As sure as Christmas Cop was born on Christmas Day, he died on Christmas Day, 2009 at the tender age of 71. Of course, his death was untimely, in that he was running six-and-a-half hours late. He overslept; perhaps, he just slept. You see, retirement further messed up his already horrible sense of time. He jumped in the shower, frisked himself with soap, jumped out of the shower, slipped, banged his head on the corner of the sink, suffered a severe concussion, didn’t know it, got into his car in the garage, thought about starting up the car, but instead, fell asleep behind the wheel for the very last time. His corpse was not discovered until Valentine’s Day. If there’s one thing to be learned, it is this…
Timing. Also, don’t go to sleep after severe head trauma. Also, don’t die on Christmas. People are so busy in the whirlwind of the holidays; they assume you are too. Actually, the latter did not apply to Christmas Cop, he did not have people who cared enough to wonder where he was. When this guy burned bridges, the cinders dried up all the water below.
The true lesson here is: timeliness is a great responsibility. Being punctual is divine, not forgiveness, that’s just sensitive ass talk. Let’s switch pants here. You’re waiting for the cable guy. He’s over an hour late. You’ve got better things to do than just wait around. Your time is worth so much more than this. How inconsiderate. Look up the word empathy, absorb it, now exemplify. Quit being so damn selfish. Vote for the integrity of your country, not your party. Give a hoot, don’t pollute. Shut the fuck up.
All the post-it notes®, all the text reminders, and still, Christmas Cop was late for his own funeral. In the defense of Christmas, his lateness was no fault of his own. After all, he was dead. If we are looking to blame someone or something, it was the work of the cosmic forces. It was the culmination of every person who ever said that Christmas would be late for his own funeral. You could count the number of consequences and disturbances caused by his chronic tardiness on one hand, one hand of the hundred thousand fingered man of Madagascar (the country, not the successful animated film franchise™).
Finally, the coffin arrived. Christmas was contained in the cheapest legal rectangular pressboard box, like a dresser from Ikea® but a tad taller and minus the eggshell white paint. Strips of silver duct tape held a corner together. The impatient minister paced, hugging himself. The Arctic blasts® were brutal, and blew right through your body, especially his. He stood in front of the burial site, opened his Bible, looked skyward for two seconds, closed his Bible, and scurried off to the warmth of an idling car. It was an old German automobile, so it was loud, obnoxious, and militant.
In the distance, you could hear the trill of one of those quaint songbirds. Odd, when you would expect the solemn mournful dirge of gospel goats or Zamfir on valium®. The tombstone gleamed in the momentary sunlight. CHRIST AS COP 38 09 Always Late.
One last word of advice, never piss off tombstone manufacturers.