When I Die A Southern Death

Last week, I spoke with an old acquaintance I’d not seen in awhile. When I inquired about her Aunt Thelma, she said:

“Thelma is no longer with us. Bless her soul! She struggled for so long but last year, the Lord came on his Golden Chariot and carried her home to heaven. She was a good woman though.”

Only in the south will you encounter such poetic news of death. But I’ve been thinking. I’m really not into horses and chariots. Therefore, when I die could ya’ll please say:

“Angie isn’t with us anymore. Last year, after her seventh nervous breakdown, a dark-skinned Jesus pulled up in a red convertible and carted her swiftly off into Heaven with the radio playing loud and her hair blowing in the breeze. And on the back bumper, there was a sticker, which read, “Honk if you love Jesus, Jorge, Isabella and all the other Immigrants!!”

That’d piss cousin Marie off more than me bequeathing her my gansta rap CD’s.

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