Another year older, sadly no wiser
Denny's: a clean, well-lighted place
It's 2030, give or take, and I'm on my death bed. The whole family is there with me, and my grandchildren (or it could be their avatars; with these little bouyam, I can never tell) have just ordered pizza. No one asks if I still like pepperoni. The doorbell rings. It's the guy from MortgageWorx. He's here to administer last rites and to let Ronna know she needs to be out by midnight. I pull my head down under my carapace of tangled blankets, and, like a bad PowerPoint, my life flashes before me. Lots of grainy images and indecipherable bullet lists. I try to make sense of it all, but it's difficult because the moron who authored the whole thing used a magenta background and navy blue text. It's horribly confusing, but a few nuggets of truth somehow float to the surface like bubbles in a Lava Lamp. And I know now that there are two life conclusions I will not reach: â€¢Â I should have watched more television. â€¢Â I should have been nicer to Bailey on the Frenzy. No me today; talk amongst yourselves. Denny's is still doing that SofSteakâ„¢ lunch special (those clever devils have figured out a way to outsource the heavy chewing) for seniors on their birthdays, and I don't want to miss out. If I get lucky, the staff might come to my table and sing to me in big print. Tomorrow looks to be balmy. I'm thinking a spin down Neva might be fun. Eâ€™tu?