Friday, January 9, 2009

THE MURDER OF GRABWELD GROMMET

FROM THE SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE

On the morning of his 42nd birthday, Grabweld Grommet awoke to a peal of particularly ominous thuder.

Glancing out the window with bleary eyes, he saw written in fiery letters across the sky, "SOMEONE IS TRYING TO KILL YOU, GRABWELD GROMMET." With shaking hands, Grommet lit his first cigarette of the day, he didn't question the message. You don't question messages like that. His only question was, "Who."

At breakfast as he salted his fried eggs, he told his wife Gratia, "someone's trying to kill me." "Who?" she asked with horror. Grommet slowly stirred the cream and sugar into his coffee and shook his head, "I don't know." he said.

Convinced though he was, Grommet couldn't go to the police with such a story. He decided his only course was to go about his daily routine and hope somehow to out-wit his would-be murderer. He tried to think on the drive to the office. But the frustrations of making time by beating lights and switching lanes occupied him wholly. Not once behind his desk, could he find a moment, what with jangling phones, urgent memos and problems and decisions piling up as they did each day.

It wasn't until his second martini at lunch that the full terror of his position struck him. It was all he could do to finish his Lasagna Milenese. "I can't panic," he said to himself, lighting his cigar, "I simply must live my life as usual."

So he worked till seven as usual. Drove home fast as usual. Ate a hearty dinner as usual. Had his two cocktails as usual. Studied business reports as usual. And took his usual two Seconal capsules in order to get his usual six hours sleep.

As the days passed, he manfully stuck to his routine. And as the months went by, he began to take a perverse pleasure in his ability to survive. "Whoever's trying to get me," he said proudly to his wife, "hasn't got me yet. I'm too smart for him." Ladling him a second helping of beef stroganoff, she replied, "O please be careful."

The pride grew as he managed to go on living for years. But, as it must to all men, death came at last to Grabweld Grommet. It came at his desk on a particularly busy day. He was 53. His grief-stricken widow demanded a full autopsy. But it showed only emphysema, arteriosclerosis, duodenal ulcers, cirrhosis of the liver, cardiac necrosis, a cerebrovascular enuerism, pulmonary edema, obesity, ciculatory insuffiency and a touch of lung cancer.

"How glad Brabweld would have been to know," said the widow smiling proudly through tears, "that he died of natural causes."

DON says: I see myself like this back in the old days at the age of 30 in the same boat, going straight to the bone yard. Thank God I changed, and have reached the healthy age of 75. You can too!

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