Good Morning Gentle Readers,
Forty three is just way too young to punch your ticket. Even with bad genes and a two-pack-a-day monkey, you expect more than that. Odd he's gone, odder still that a year has slipped past since Wayne's heart turned on him.
Peer intently down any long stretch of deserted track and you'll catch the glimmer of the headlamp on the Freight Train of Death, relentlessly bearing down. Startling to realize that it's picked up speed over the years and although you're into bi-focals these days, the light is definitely brighter.
TWC don't do funerals or the cemetery but I laughed when I heard what was inscribed on the marker. Told the story around to mixed reactions, some didn't know if it was okay to laugh about a dead guy. I laughed. Hard. Wayne was a funny guy. It was great. Like him asking for Dead Man's Party at the service. Great stuff. Until I stopped by late one afternoon and realized he was at a party all right. Where no one's left alive. Then it was funny like a dead kid's Christmas toys.
Maybe I should take him a Bud Lite and a Marlboro. But that'd mean a visit to the cemetery.
That's classic. It's so Wayne. Trying not to laugh.
The Wine Commonsewer
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