Feeling Dead?
Call A Lawyer!
"DID YOU TAKE PPA, DPT, MMR, QED, RPM, LBJ OR ANY SIMILAR MEDICINES FOR ALLERGIES, INSOMNIA, WARTS, CATARRH, PHTHYSIS OR OTHER COMMON AILMENTS?" shouted Seymour Sharkskin, Attorney-At-Law.
"YOU COULD CLAIM BIG MONEY IF YOU OR YOUR LOVED ONES HAVE SUFFERED SKIN RASHES, HEART PROBLEMS, STROKE, PARALYSIS, OR DEATH! CALL SEYMOUR SHARKSKIN AND ASSOCIATES NOW TO SEE IF YOU QUALIFY!"
I poured myself another chamomile tea. Stroke? Paralysis? Death? Well, I HAD been feeling just a bit off-center lately. And I did take some cough syrup with letters in its name when I had that cold last January ...
"... Seymour Sharkskin's office," the perky voice on the other end of the 1-800 number answered the next morning. "Who do you want to sue today?"
"Well, I'm not sure," I said. "But I saw your ad last night during 'Three English Spinsters Drinking Tea' and, well, I think I may be dead."
"Okay, Mr., um ... "
"Oh. Yeah. Rizley. Max Rizley"
I could hear papers shuffling in the background. "Okay, let's see here ... intake form, intake form, intake ... Ah. Here we go. You say you have reason to believe you're dead? Based on what?"
"Well, I've been feeling a little ... off ... lately, and I do think I took a cough medicine with RPG in it. But I'm not paralyzed, and I don't have a skin rash or any of those other symptoms, so that pretty much leaves us with 'dead,' don't you think?"
"Okay, let's just pencil in 'death' here where it says 'complaint.' But you'll have to be seen by our doctor for a final diagnosis, Mister -- how do you spell that again ... ?"
"... Right this way, Mr. Rizeley," said Dr. Sigmund Puddleduck, ushering me into an exam room the next morning. He squinted through a pair of half-glasses at a folder marked "Rizley/Death." "Okay, let's see. You took cough medicine containing KFC and you believe it has caused symptoms of death, right?"
"Right."
"Well, you certainly LOOK dead, Mr. Rigsby. Open your mouth and say 'aaah ...' Okay, follow my finger ... right, right ... Uh-huh. Now turn your head and cough."
He scribbled busily away at a sheaf of papers on a clipboard, then turned to me and said, "Mr. Wrigley, it's a good thing you came in. You are, indeed, beyond a doubt, dead. Quite dead. Worst case of death I've seen in ages, actually. Sign here, please. Leave the yellow copy with my billing clerk."
"Really?" I said, more than a bit surprised. "So I am dead, after all? And I thought maybe it was just tired blood ... "
"... Well, Mr. Grisly," Seymour Sharkskin said as he hung up the phone. "That was the PFD folks. They're willing to settle out-of-court for $10 million in the matter of your death."
"Wow!" I exclaimed. "Ten million? Dollars?"
"Hey, you're dead, Grimsby. Very bad publicity. Those big pharmaceuticals pay big-time to hush up something like this. They make billions off MSG, can't afford to have the feds come in and start nosing around."
"Geez, but $10 million," I began.
"Yep, ten million big ones," said Sharkskin, beaming. "Minus a few incidentals, of course. My fee, for one, and Puddleduck's. Filing fees, pleadings, recording, notaries, court costs, reporter's fee. And there's your death certificate, casket, vault, grave opening and closing, marker. Then there's probate, and ... "
... I plunked my last $5 bill down on the donut shop counter. "Gimme three -- no, by golly, make it four -- cinnamon-sugars," I told the waitress. "And a coffee."
"Oh -- and keep the change," I said expansively. "What the heck? I'm dead, you know."
And whistling a merry tune, I strode out into the bright morning sun.
