Photo by Mockup Graphics on Unsplash
These podiatric shoes don’t breathe, they gasp. Always damp by design, but good tread. They were made in Malaysia with love for a song. Don’t start on me about fair trade as I’m dying. This should be fun. It’s supposed to be fun.
Count the toothpicks burying my feet. Not now! But you should use them for kindling my body. Weigh them for your records, then burn me to reusable ash. Cremation certainly heats a cold heart up. I am not kidding. This is serious.
Almost forgot the rules. Winner takes all. Your answers must be in the imperial style. Metric isn’t allowed. Here’s a hint, though. One toothpick is one hundred milligrams. You can check your precious internet.
Been six years since the last time anyone cleaned. Heaps of Dagwood sandwiches delivered and eaten alone.
Guesses must be made within twenty-four hours of confirmed time of death. Only whole toothpicks count. So don’t let the grandchildren play all fast and stompy. You may want to hire an independent consultant for a pure count. That’s on your dime.
I said winner takes all. The prize is my inheritance. House, gasoline can collection, the whole kaboodle. Shut your mouth and listen for once. Here’s another hint since you’re here and nobody else bothered. Weight and quantity are the two measurable criteria. Toothpicks. The winner must nail both within reasonably close estimates. My lawyer will explain and answer reasonable questions.
Because metric would be too easy and respectful, it’s imperial! Change is your generation’s thing. We’re all too tired to change. We already changed from changing.
What’ll the Catholic Daughters say? Father Paul? They’d have me become landfill inside a bobsled with no runners? I’m an environmentalist first particularly when arguing with the religious, you know. I don’t yet know how much carbon I’ll emit in the burn though. I’m still calculating.
The winner wins the privilege of dragging my body to the backyard pizza oven I built with my own dead, once hungry hands. It’s built to code, but don’t ask the lawyer about that. Do do this:
JR Walsh is the Online Editor at The Citron Review. His writing is in beloved publications such as The Greensboro Review, New World Writing, Juked, Litro, The Hong Kong Review, Hobart, Fractured Literary, FRiGG, Ghost Parachute, B O D Y, and Esquire. For more: itsjrwalsh.com.