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“Living life,” as I call it, can take its toll on the fragile human body. Still, what’s the point of living if you don’t push it to the limit? We only have one shot at this obnoxious nonsense here on earth, so we should live it up. That’s how I’ve always carried out my affairs, at any rate. If I’m going to do something, I’m going to go all (snap) the (snap) way (… snap). Dig? Wind, meet caution, because I’m alive -- heck with all the nebbish wimps who don’t know how to live it to the fullest (THE FULLEST) and insist everyone else follow their hesitant ways. Not me, man. Not this fella -- baboon heart or no.
… What? Oh, yeah. I have a baboon heart. Hmmm…
It’s like I typed way back in paragraph one: I live life to the fullest. Who cares that doctors and health nuts say bacon and cheese and everything else that makes life worth living isn’t good for you? To paraphrase a friend of mine after I devoured a cheeseburgery bacon thing with extra bacon and immediately complained of chest pains, “So what if you die from eating too much bacon? At least you LIVED!”
I’m not saying the guy is a prophet, but those are some wise fucking words. And yet, to live a long life, I should be doing the following things I hate:
1. Exercise. Are you kidding me? Running and whatnot? Lifting heavy things in repetition? Moving around in other various ways? Miserable.
2. Eat healthy things. Trade carnitas, sour cream, and cheese filled burritos for a salad? Heaven wrapped in happiness for some freaking leaves? For what? A few extra years of “life”?
3. Other stuff I don’t want to do.
So, with my love of the cheesy, the salty, the beefy, the bready, the sugary, and the fried, I decided to just live it up. That decision was made when I was six, and for thirty-two glorious years, aside from the extremely rare “no big deal” incident, it was fine -- swell even. To wit: While others would be at a b-day party and shun their allotted piece of ice cream cake, I’d take mine and enjoy theirs, too. When friends would stop eating at the buffet after two trips, I’d go into thirds or fourths. And there wasn’t a six-pack of cold beer in the world that couldn’t be followed up with a sausage wrapped in pancakes. It made me, what’s the word? Oh -- happy.
And indeed I was happy until my heart exploded a couple of months ago.
It was a mess. The doctors said I needed a replacement heart with a quickness. (Even though I know several people who live quite well without one.) There was also an alarming amount of sour cream in my blood, which compounded matters substantially. They had to act fast.
That’s when the zoo reported that Popo the baboon had died of supernatural causes (thanks, Satan). He had a heart, and he had my blood type. It was risky, but I was insured, so the surgeons were allowed to operate on me.
Afterwards I had a wicked scar on my chest that would earn me badass points if I ever took off my shirt and the heart of a baboon with baboon blood coursing through my veins. It was nothing like that Christian Slater flick. (Baboon Heart, I believe it’s called.)
The doctors told me that, in order to survive, I had to detox. No more of the stuff I liked or, in their words, “the horrible shit” that I “consumed with violent fervor.” But baboons only eat grass and bugs or something, maybe tree bark, and Popo still died. With that in mind, I’ve decided to show this new heart of mine the time of its life, as I figured Popo’d never had a burrito or donuts, let alone beer. Well, maybe beer.
I’m going to push Popo’s heart to the limit, much like I did with my old one. Show it the good time silly bug and grass eating Popo never did… The doctors and my loved ones say I’m being foolish, drinking more booze than ever while eating at least one burrito a meal, often with a pizza or cake chaser.
They say I’m “foolish”… I say I’m LIVING!
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