Mini Taco

(*DISCLAIMER: My protagonist is a real A-hole. He does not mean to intentially offend anyone from the LGBTQ+ community. He doesn’t know any better.)

Had I known I was gonna turn up dead, my last supper would not have been an open face PB&J on a heine slice of bread. Damn it; I woulda got my lazy ass up and drove down to Red Lobster and ordered all you can eat shrimp with a double side of lobster tails drippin drawn butter like milk from a titty, and ahh sweet sugar please keep them cheddar bay cheesy biscuits a comin. Pop. Pop. Pop.

So here I am.

Dead.

Come to find out, I just may see myself from the grave on 48 hours, Dateline or any other one of them upper channel murder mystery TV shows that suck you in like a vampire pumpin iron on steroids. Who dun it? Spoiler alert. Nine times outta ten it was the spouse, you know it, I know it and every sucker that sits down with a bowl of popcorn to watch knows it, yet what else do we have to do on a Saturday night? Go figure.

It still blows my mind how frequently people that vow to love each on their wedding day turn up as pigs on the wing. There they are on their special day each believin in their own real life fairy tale proclaiming, “blah blah blah blah”... “till death do us part, blah blah blah….I do,” performed in front of a totally buying that shit crowd made up of family and friends; and then the next thing you know, right after the honeymoon, by the time they run out of their first roll of toilet paper, the war of the roses is a thing. Even the married folk sittin there sportin their Sunday best and buy one get one free manicures who know better are totally diggin on the yarn all over again like shedding sheep in a pew next to their very own lamb with a ring on it, who they literally just felt like throwing under the bus on the way over!

Ha!

But why wouldn’t they buy it again and again? Everybody loves a good fairytale, don’t they? And Santa Claus. And the Easter Bunny. Tooth Fairy was always my favorite. And a party. Everyone loves a party.

At a formal wedding, what’s not to like? Why dwell on an inevitable future fate of a starry eyed bride and groom (or groom and groom and bride and bride) when the herd is pumped to dance to the beat and primed to stuff their pie holes over a 3, maybe 4 or more courser with unlimited drinks, sometimes not only the cheap stuff, and then if you’re lucky maybe even one of them chocolate fountains I once thought I’d died and gone to heaven for, but you do know I’m just making use of a metaphor, right, cause now I am truly dead, dead, dead; deader than a fricken doornail, but heaven? Not for me. Not just yet, but almost! Seems somehow it is up to me to solve my own murder, but I’m bout to go join up with my hero, Old Grampy on the other side, maybe catch a game of pinochle and whatever the hell else it is he’s doin up there, cause I do believe I’ve got the skinny.

Trouble was with my marriage, right after we said “I do” for no apparent reason she suddenly became the flying nun and I enthusiastically became the master of my own domain, if you catch my drift. Eventually I said, “Look Mary, we can either go our separate ways or stay married and accept we are nothing more than roommates. But until we figure things out, let’s be civil, split the rent, while you continue to do all the chores, and promise to agree to make nice nice in front of my granny when she comes around.” But no, Mary insisted we were gonna try to make things work. I agreed to try but I must admit, she was the one that put in the whole enchilada; setting up therapy, watching marital bootcamp episodes of Dr. Phil, even bringing up Dr. Ruth’s “Sexually Speaking” on YouTube, when all I had left to give her was a mini taco, this low, very low energy coming out of somewhere like my left pinky, but in spite of my so called Neanderthal tendencies towards my marraige, according to Mary, she was not the one who killed me. 100 percent.

Right after the accident, all day long, day in and day out she was slobbering all over everything, including my PS 4, which just ain’t right, piles and piles of spent tissues makin the place look like an indoor blizzard had hit, and then soon after my death, SHE started comin around, more and more and more; Mary’s so called best friend I had nicknamed Wonder Woman when I was alive, comin around with flowers, then chocolates, then wine (not the cheap stuff), then hugs, then back rubs, and yeah, you know what comes next. I thought I would like watching them more than I do, but if you saw my porn hub preferences you would know I prefer two Asian chicks. Perhaps my gaydar was off; way off. Poor Turncoat Mary’s too. Neither one of us had a clue before I died that all along the problem was she had a preference for beans. Go figure.

Dateline is gonna have fun with my murder. Yes they will. This time it was not the spouse who dun it, but for the first 45 minutes they will have you believing it was until they rip the rug right out from under you and you will stop eating popcorn long enough to say “Holy shit, it was the best friend.” It was without a doubt Wonder Woman. Motive? Wanting to get into Mary’s panties and she just couldn’t wait any longer to get me out of the way.

When you are a ghost, you may not be able to do things the same way you used to like eating and crapping, but you can transfer your body size just like Casper the friendly ghost and slide through things, and as I figured out after a while, I was even able to crawl right up into people’s brains like I did with Wonder Woman after I suspected it was her that did me in, and while I was in there I got the whole sordid scoop and then with no need for a password I got onto her computer and wrote a confession email addressed to the detective in charge of the case at the Suffolk County PD. By this point in time she was so racked with guilt, when he arrived, she totally believed she had wrote the damn email herself explaining how she was the one who cut my breaklines causing my car to careen off the Robert Moses bridge.

So I guess my job is done here. Hope you have a nice life Mary, I really hope you do, and now, case solved, it is time for me to bid this world adieu. Shuffle up them cards Gramps.

But before I go, if my ghost of a self could only figure out a way to eat one last cheddar bay cheesy biscuit, that would be real nice.

Real nice.

Pop.