It could be Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes with your retirement plan.
Or it might be the governor calling the warden to commute the sentence as Lefty was walking that last crooked mile to the chair. After all, he's clean as a choir boy. The reporters at the saloon won't see the lights dim since the switch in the big house will stay untouched this time around.
It might even be your doctor with the news that your scan showed your prostate cancer has not metastasized into your bones. What happened to the prostate, stayed in the prostate. Though it revealed severe degeneracy. One cultivates their degeneracy over the years; I call it a life, lived.
That sort of cancer is famously slow growing. So slow I suppose one dies from it posthumously. In fact, over 50% of men in their nineties have prostate cancer. Some of us just don't want to be left out.
We're told we will die of something else, but we're not given a multiple choice. For my part I'd like to get a phone call informing me that I'm already dead and this is my afterlife. Pass the key lime pie.
