Death and taxes. Those things are certain. Those things and the eternal shelf-life of Spam and Twinkies. By the way, eating those things alone, or perish the thought, together, will probably cost you. Not in taxes, but in life expectancy.
Guffaw yourselves all the way to the pub. That’s where I want my wake. Bell’s Brewery, if it’s still around, would be a great place to gather. Don’t fret about things getting a little awkward. There will be no body to view or worry about. (That's no body, not nobody.) Take a decent photo of me along for the ride if it makes you feel better. Don’t forget to order me a Two Hearted. Somebody make a good toast about something I said or did or stood for or cried over or mocked lovingly. Somebody else make a good toast about love and life and still being alive and able to love.
|Amie & Al Heasley, Old Mission Point|
*I just realized Brett is a ginger and that this particular song rambles over six minutes. My condolences for the song length, not for the color of Brett’s hair. Because gingers are people, too, and they happen to be awesome.