Prof Worzel
It has been said that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. It may be true, but in my own defence, I would posit that any form of wit is worthwhile in an increasingly witless world.
With that in mind, I would offer you my Diary of Death. It is based on a true story although much like Hollywood there has been some embellishment for dramatic effect.
I wake feeling just a little frowsy and washed out. I rise and put the coffee on. I detect the telltale signs of a tickle in the back of the throat.
I sneeze – twice. There could be no denying it. I have contracted the contagion.
But how? It made no sense, I had had no human contact other than mask wearing government compliant social distancers. The realisation hit me like a falling pine branch.
Before the fire curled in blissful ignorance of her crimes was the dog we had always affectionately known as ‘Goldie’. It was clear she was a treacherous ‘Typhoid Mary’ of the animal kingdom. Small and seemingly innocuous but in reality more dangerous than an enraged Tiger.
She would need to be destroyed of course but how could it be done? Who could possibly risk contact with this most dangerous of animals? It was fortunate that our caring Government had deployed the military against its own people. She must be machine-gunned to death from at least 300 meters away. In times of great crisis, drastic action must be taken
The BFD. Goldie having enjoyed her last meal waits patiently for the government firing squad to arrive.
But alas it is too late for me. I sit and play Frank Sinatra on my computer.
"And now the end is near, and though I face the final curtain….." .
There are practical steps that must be taken before the full force of this killer pandemic renders me incapable. I weep bitterly over a bowl of chicken soup as I update my Will. Then attending to less formal matters I begin to pen a letter to family and friends.
To my dearest ones and also my family. It is with much sadness that I must inform you that I have contracted the killer virus which has so devastated the world and ravaged our nation. The awful statistics cannot be denied. In this nation alone it has killed almost one-tenth as many as have committed suicide. A thousandth as many as have died from cancer and heart disease and one ten-thousandth as many souls as have been killed through abortion.
Although I realise that there is a very slender 99.8% chance that I will survive I know that we must prepare for the worst. Visiting, of course, is out of the question and in any case, would be prevented by the military. Do not worry that I will waste away alone and forlorn. When I know the end is near, although it is unlawful I have resolved to take matters into my own hands and be the master of my own fate. I bid you all farewell and thank you all for trying to be nice sometimes”.
I empty the medicine cabinet but can find no solace there. The contents amount to three voltarin, two panadol, an unused course of antibiotics, sundry aspirin and a dog worming pill. I determine that these are woefully insufficient to facilitate my death with dignity. I suppose I could take my chances and simply try to choke on an aspirin wrapped in band aids but decide no. I require greater certainty than this.
Retrieving a stout rope from the shed I tie the noose. I string it upon a rafter with a carefully positioned chair beneath. When the battle has been waged and lost and at last my final hour has come, when what strength I still possess is all but spent I will use the remainder to climb my final podium. I will don that ropey necklace that will be my gateway to the great beyond and bid a fond farewell to this cruel world.
With all my preparation done, in tearful resignation, I give myself to slumber and dream of desert islands drenched in sun.
I rise again. I feel fine. I am healed. A miracle has happened. By lucky chance, the benevolent hand of providence, the fickle finger of fate has decreed that I would be one of the fortunate few. Yes, I am one of an absolutely overwhelming majority to beat this disease. (Or was it just a mild head cold?) I stand in awe. Snatched from the very jaws of death. How many can boast of talking fingers or speaking hands decreeing things?
In triumph, I tear the rope from the ceiling and use it to tow the car out of the mud. I feed the dog, give her the worm pill and head out into the world for a game of squash.
© Worzel 2020
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