I’m not saying it will happen, at least not any time soon. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be around to annoy everyone for way, way, WAY too long. Too long for you, too long for me, to the point of, “Seriously! Just shoot it already.”
But just in case I land tits-up in some colorful, wildly-improbable crime scene, make sure that Keith Morrison is my Dateline narrator. I like them all but only Keith will make my strange demise sound so…intriguing and eerily graceful.
“Her life, like the melon-baller that ended it, scooped until it clinked into the rind-like bone, now dry and bereft of…sweetness. “
Or something awesome like that.
Just be sure you don’t tell him that we already know how ridiculously I end or he won’t do it. And I really need him to do it. I just do.
Especially, since I don’t know where to find Bill Kurtis.
Bill Kurtis’ hard-hitting, often disturbingly so, Cold Case Files was the beginning and, in my opinion, the end-all, be-all of crime shows. The original is still the best. Kurtis still remains a master.
However, nothing but the dulcet tones of Keith’s silky Vincent-Price-esque, sinister narration of my life and subsequent tragedy could truly honor my Dateline-worthiness.
So, to whomever is in charge of that, get on it. I only have 30-40 years left to play this out and I got shit to do. Thanks!
I write awkward tales. Mostly funny. Usually true. Often truthfully funny.