Hot dog, it’s Larry Begonia and a glass of lemonade. How are ya? Me, I’m doing just fine. Still no luck on the job search front—and the last word I heard from my family was a subpoena for child support—but I’ve got this here blog and my health and those are both worth every quarter!
Now, when I say I’ve got my health, I mean I’ve got my good health, and I’ve got my not-so-good health. Good health: ten fingers, nine toes (fishing accident—it’s a mackerel of a story!), a brain, a belly, and a heart. On the flip side of that temperamental coin: tennis elbow, golfer’s knee, and a bladder infection that won’t quit. My ticker’s a-ok; Dr. Akers chalks it up to my “sunny disposition.” He says that many a Joe or Bill in my current state—broke and lonely—would be reaching for the whiskey, cheese wheels and antacids. Well, I tell him, I write a lot of letters. That passes the time.
This health care conundrum the President’s facing sure is a doozy. I count my lucky stars I don’t have his job. Almost better off unemployed! I thought about writing Obama a letter, give him my two-cents, but it turns out I haven’t got a darn penny. I had only one thought on the matter—that doctors should work for free, like parks volunteers–but Dr. Akers met the proposal with apprehension and a “Well…”
Let’s break it down. Democrats are after a public health care option, while Republicans maintain that universal health care leads to inefficiencies. Me? I’m torn. Thinking about this glass of lemonade in my hand, I’d very much like to have lemonade whenever I’m quenched for thirst, but what if the universal lemonade just tastes downright unpleasant? That scares me! And I don’t necessarily want the glass of lemonade my neighbor Paul drinks, and not because he’s black—I just wonder if he uses as much sweetener as I do. It’s all very confusing.
Because I couldn’t solve health care for Obama, I decided to do the next best thing, and write a different letter. Here it is:
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Dear Plaxico Burress,
What’s the opposite of “congratulations”? Whatever it is, that’s what I wish to say regarding your recent criminal sentencing. Prison! I’d like to give you a good old hug. You look like you need one.
Now, I don’t care for football (too violent), and I particularly do not care for the New York Giants (also too violent, I imagine), but I considered taking to the streets in protest after hearing the sad news. Two years incarceration? For shooting yourself? That’s what we call adding insult to injury here in Rockhurst, PA. If we all went to prison for every stupid thing we did to ourselves, well, we’d all be in prison! Heck, just think of it. Hard labor for a paper cut! Heavy fines over stubbed toes! What’s next, lethal injection for not sexually satisfying your wife and inevitably driving her into the arms of your dentist? Yikes!
I’ll tell you a story. My wife Candy had just up and left me, piling Larry Jr. and little Bitty into a U-Haul along with all of our furniture and most of our glassware. Well I’m just so, so…MAD: no other word for it. (And I don’t use that word lightly.) I borrow my neighbor Paul’s fishing gear, drive to the lake, and rent a rowboat. Now, I’ve never fished a day in my life, and I realize today that a line and hook can be as lethal as a semi-automatic weapon—for the fish, I mean. So I throw the line in, and wait. And wait. And I’m getting nothing, I mean nothing. I’m just about ready to pack it in and head back home, but then I remember there’s nobody at home waiting for me, so why bother. I debate committing suicide, but I end up resolving that such a thing would go against my personality. I’m Bright as Butter Begonia, for plum sake! So I reel the line in, but it won’t give—it’s caught something! I pull and pull and pull and I think my neck’s gonna break, but finally I hurl this BEAST of a fish onto the rowboat. It’s bigger than a Thanksgiving turkey! And it’s flapping around and trying to breathe, chomping its mouth and wouldn’t you know it—the ninny chomps down on my toe. Second in command, the piggy that stays home. And this ninny’s got TEETH.
I ended up losing that toe, but what’s more—I could’ve gone to jail. Not for losing the toe, but because Paul thought I stole his fishing gear and called the police. Anyhowdy, I could be in just the same situation as you, and all I can think is, darn. Close call, Begonia. I wonder too: if you were white, perhaps you’d be a-okay, Plaxico. Food for thought.
So maybe my “what was he thinking!” story will give you a little comfort as you read this in your prison cell. Maybe it won’t. But good luck to you.
Peace brother,
Larry Begonia
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As a white man, I know full well that Plaxico and Obama and my neighbor Paul are different people, despite all being black. But hopefully I did something nice for Plaxico, even though I couldn’t fix health care for Obama, and even though Paul is still pickled irate with me over the missing fisherman’s gear.
Adios for now “muchachos”,
Larry Begonia
