“Here you go, Garfield ass motherfucker,” said the guard as he tossed a still frozen family-sized Stouffer’s lasagna with extra meat into my cell. At least it was family-sized. He was all pissy because when he’d asked what I wanted for my last meal I said, “ayy lemme get a lasagna bippidy boppidy boo” with exaggerated hand movements. Turned out I was saying this to the one prison guard named Jimmy Strombili, and he didn’t take kindly to my cultural insensitivity.
So I took a fork to that frozen block of cheese and decided to make the most of my final joyful moments. The thought of death is so wild to me in that I would never taste lasagna again. Not a year long lasagna hiatus. Not five years. Not 100 years. Eternity. And to be fair, I was barely eating it then and there due to its frozen nature.
I thought back to my crime with a mix of regret and apathy. There was no pathy left to give; why fight what you can’t control? I was arrested and charged when I touched MC Hammer. It turned out that his famous ‘You can’t touch this’ song wasn’t so much a boast of elusiveness but an explanation of a legally binding mandate. This, I was not aware of. Whether the punishment should be death is something to be debated by people with much more power and brains than me.
So, I just munch on frozen layers of cold and wait for it all to be over. It will be over, won’t it? Or maybe it just continues in a new way. Why hypothesize when the answer is moments away? Much of what we do is futile. Perhaps I’ll get excited about being in an exclusive group of people who know what death brings, but that is likely futile as well. Oh well, at least the lasagna was family-sized.