Piss and Asparagus

My last meal is a mountain of asparagus.

Now, I don’t particularly like asparagus. I’m not fond of it, per se. But we’ll get to that.

Thing is, I’m innocent.

I didn’t kill anyone, especially not old Mrs. Gertrude May. She was nice, the kind of sugar-offering neighbor you dream about. Not that I seek out sugar, but I know she’d offer it. Whatever.

Point is, she was murdered. I’m on the anti-social side, I didn’t have an alibi. Napping is not an alibi, apparently. And the knife that was used was slid under my apartment door, all nice-like.

It was an easy arrest. Easier conviction. I can’t say I put up much of a fight–– figured I could nap more in prison. Wouldn’t have to work the early shift at Blockbuster. Wouldn’t have to attend Thanksgiving, where all my relatives would coo over the babies I’d shove into some poor fool once I found “the right girl.” Is it selfish that I decided it’d be easier not to fight it? Maybe.

It’s been years now. I’m not as fond of napping, though I do it more. Old age, I guess. Old-ish.

Prison made me bitter. It’s not all napping. Obviously. It was shit. Broken system, etc.

Last meal time. I’m pissed, don’t want to die. You know the drill.

What they don’t tell you about dying is that you piss when you go. Fly off the mortal coil, piss yourself as you fall. Dark shit.

You shit yourself too, actually.

I’m not peaches-and-gravy about the ordeal. I didn’t do it, did I? Now I’m paying the ultimate price.

So I’m eating a shit-load of asparagus. Because I know asparagus makes your piss stink.

And I’m pissed.

So I’m going to eat this whole bucket of asparagus. And when I fly the mortal coil, I’m gonna piss to the high heavens.

And that’s that.