On Thursdays, the Butcher and I go out to lunch. Sometimes, he brings his friend, the Redheaded Kid. I love the Redheaded Kid. You can’t not love a person who tries to convince you that he’s a giant and then, when confronted with the fact that he’s not really that much taller than you, looks at you, raises his eyebrows in a conspiratorial manner and says “A baby giant.”
Today, at lunch, I was hoping to discuss my brilliant plan in which anyone buying maxi pads would receive $1 off a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, but, sadly, an opportunity never presented itself. Instead, we ended up talking about whether the waitress at our trendy, yet PBR-y bar/restaurant, gave the Redheaded Kid two straws in his Dr Pepper because she a. needed a way to differentiate between the two Diet Cokes and the Dr Pepper or b. could clearly see that the Redheaded Kid was weird and thus needed two straws.
Then, we started talking about what we’d like to happen to us after we die. The Butcher wants to be put in a boat and set on fire and pushed out to sea. I want to not be embalmed so that I explode and rattle around in the coffin and freak out the teenagers who are creeping around the cemetery after dark. But the Redheaded Kid wants to be buried standing up, so that, and I quote “When the Lord comes back and raises us all up, I’ll already be standing and I won’t have to waste the energy.”