Right after sex and the alt-right movement, death is one of the most difficult matters to explain to a child. Here are some questions you may get and some sample answers in reference to a dead Uncle Bob. Remember, the answers you give may be different, so do not read these word for word to the child unless your dead person is also Uncle Bob.
1. Where’s Uncle Bob?
Uncle Bob is dead.
2. What is dead?
Dead is when you stop breathing.
3. I can hold my breath.
That is not a question, but I’ll answer it anyways. If you were to hold your breath for a long time you would die. Just like Uncle Bob.
4. Is Uncle Bob being punished by God?
No. Uncle Bob did not believe in God. Too bad for Bob, because God believed in him. So now Bob is in hell with the devil and eternal fires.
5. Why is Bob in that box?
Bob is in that plain box because he could not afford the metal one with the stainless steel. Bob was a bad planner and spent his money on booze and women. Daddy wishes he could have the plain box.
6. No, why is he in that box and not moving?
He’s dead. I thought we covered that in #1.
7. No, why is he out so we can see him?
Uncle Bob is being displayed so that people can say their last good-byes. In a little while, they will shut the box and bury the box in the ground.
8. Why do we put people in the ground?
Dead people can come back as zombies and it is best to lock them up and stick them as far as possible under the earth. Remember, only a head shot can take out a zombie. Don’t try to light them on fire. You can also hit them with a guitar.
9. Mom said Uncle Bob was going to be cremated.
Oh shit. You are right. He’ll get stuffed in the flames, crackle, crackle, crackle, then they give us a handful of ashes, which we can pretend are his.
10. Was that last line a complete rip off from the Monty Python “Undertaker” sketch?
Yes. Your Uncle Bob loved Python. And scotch.
11. What are all these rocks with the writing on them?
Those are called tombstones. They are overpriced chunks of marble so that we can remember that we outlived Uncle Bob. You’ll note that Uncle Bob’s tombstone looks like everyone else’s and we are bound to spend countless hours searching around for it so that your mother can swap out the flowers.
12. Why is everyone crying?
Uncle Bob owed a lot of people a lot of money. This funeral ain’t cheap either.
13. You didn’t like Uncle Bob, did you?
It’s not polite to say bad things about the dead.
14. Will I die?
Someday, yes. But not for a long time. You’ll spend years of your life, trudging and plodding and scraping by. You’ll get married and have kids and retire. Then one day you'll ask yourself "why?" Then you'll impatiently wait for death to come to your doorstep.
15. Which is harder to explain: death, sex or neoconservatism?
Sex, then neoconservatism and then death. In that order.
16. Why do people have to die?
People have to die so that the cigarette companies can make more money. At least that's what I read somewhere.
17. Did Bonkers die?
No, Bonkers ran away. And let's stick with the Uncle Bob theme.
18. What if Uncle Bob wakes up and he is under ground?
Good question. Uncle Bob is really, really dead. But just in case, all bodies are buried with a cell phone and five free minutes. I hope this cemetery isn't outside of our calling area.
19. Are you going to try to stretch this out to an even twenty questions?
No.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Run, Rabbit, Run
I ran over a baby rabbit with the lawn mower this afternoon. We noticed a nest a few weeks back and the kids have been very curious about when the bunnies will start running around the back yard. The answer to that is: today.
I was mowing the area outside the fenced-in back yard and didn’t think that any of the little furry bastards had made it that far. One did and he was really hidden because I did not notice him till he popped out from behind the push mower, upside down and franticly kicking.
I yelled. Really loud. Miss Sally came out of the house thinking I had cut off my foot.
I'd seen a nest of rabbit run over with a riding mower when I was a kid. Most had died instantly. A few with cuts all over with no chance of survival. Eyes bugging out. Blood.
This rabbit had righted himself and was sitting, balled up and very still. I picked him up by the scruff and there was blood on his fur in back. I couldn’t tell if the blood was on his leg or if the blood was on where his leg used to be. I carried him into the fenced in back yard and put him by the nest so that he could be close to home when he died.
Because I am a big softy, I became distraught. I started to reflect upon life and that it’s been a year since I gave a futile dose of CPR to my dying/dead neighbor. He had been mowing his lawn that day. I thought about how life can end in the split second it takes for a mower blade to spin around or in the agonizing ten minutes it takes to die, waiting for someone to give you CPR.
And then I checked my mower manual and found the problem.
I had the throttle on the wrong setting! I changed the lever off the dead rabbit position and continued to mow the lawn.
A few minutes ago I checked the nest and the rabbit was gone. I looked over the yard and over by the swing set, the mama rabbit stared at me. In a flash she darted off… and left behind was the injured rabbit. He hopped a few times and hid in the shade.
I left the yard and went inside. From the kitchen window I could see them back at the nest. Mama keeping watch and Limpy following behind. I hope I see him hopping tomorrow.
I was mowing the area outside the fenced-in back yard and didn’t think that any of the little furry bastards had made it that far. One did and he was really hidden because I did not notice him till he popped out from behind the push mower, upside down and franticly kicking.
I yelled. Really loud. Miss Sally came out of the house thinking I had cut off my foot.
I'd seen a nest of rabbit run over with a riding mower when I was a kid. Most had died instantly. A few with cuts all over with no chance of survival. Eyes bugging out. Blood.
This rabbit had righted himself and was sitting, balled up and very still. I picked him up by the scruff and there was blood on his fur in back. I couldn’t tell if the blood was on his leg or if the blood was on where his leg used to be. I carried him into the fenced in back yard and put him by the nest so that he could be close to home when he died.
Because I am a big softy, I became distraught. I started to reflect upon life and that it’s been a year since I gave a futile dose of CPR to my dying/dead neighbor. He had been mowing his lawn that day. I thought about how life can end in the split second it takes for a mower blade to spin around or in the agonizing ten minutes it takes to die, waiting for someone to give you CPR.
And then I checked my mower manual and found the problem.
I had the throttle on the wrong setting! I changed the lever off the dead rabbit position and continued to mow the lawn.
A few minutes ago I checked the nest and the rabbit was gone. I looked over the yard and over by the swing set, the mama rabbit stared at me. In a flash she darted off… and left behind was the injured rabbit. He hopped a few times and hid in the shade.
I left the yard and went inside. From the kitchen window I could see them back at the nest. Mama keeping watch and Limpy following behind. I hope I see him hopping tomorrow.
RIP Broccoli – 10/06 – 5/08
Broccoli died today. He was 1.5 years old, which in goldfish years is about 38.
Greg won him at the Fairfield County Fair in October of 2006. The game consists of me buying ten dollars worth of ping pong balls and Greg trying to throw them into small fishbowls of water. He made one in at the two dollar mark and my biggest fear was that he would make another one or more. Luckily he only made the one and the
carney dipped a random, non-floating goldfish out of the fish vat and put him lovingly into a plastic bag. As we walked to the car, me holding the plastic bag with him wanting to, I asked Greg what he wanted to name his new pet. Without much hesitation, he said, “Broccoli.” I made mention and repeated several times that goldfish get sick and die. Greg seemed to not care.
My old boss Orlando suggested I buy the SpongeBob SquarePants all-in-one tank. It came with everything a fish that was only going to live a month needed: Tank, air bubbler, tiny white rocks, and SpongeBob character to stick in the tank as your fish would need a friend to console it during its short life.
About six amazing months into his life, Broccoli began to act funny. He’d spin. All the time. Most of the time he would spin with his nose pointed at the tiny white rocks in the bottom of the tank. When we would feed him, he’d spin up to the surface and spend hours trying to get the food to go in his mouth. The internet said it was a parasite that fish get and there was no cure. I let him spin for about two days, hoping he would work it out. I told Miss Sally that I would give it one more day before sending Broccoli to the porcelain purgatory.
The next day, he was fine. No spinning. For weeks, I would quietly ask Sally if she replaced the sick Broccoli with a new Broccoli. She denied it. I believe her. Mostly.
A year after Broccoli became a member of our family, Greg and I went back to the Fairfield County Fair and we won another goldfish. This time I only bought two dollars worth of balls and Greg’s aim was still the same. As we walked to the car, he holding the plastic bag with me wanting to, I asked Greg what he wanted to name his new pet. Without much hesitation, he said, “Broccoli.” “But you all ready have a fish named Broccoli.” He shrugged. I made mention and repeated several times that goldfish get sick and die. Greg seemed to not care.
I made a point to not differentiate between the two Broccolis. I’d comment, “Broccoli is getting bigger!” or “I like Broccoli better.” Greg would answer whichever way he’d see fit.
Today, Broccoli was hovering sideways in the middle of the tank. I tried to resuscitate him by pushing him around in a bowl of water, forcing water through his gills. He was gone.
I called Sally and asked her what her opinion was on sharing the death of Broccoli with Greg. She said I should and we should flush him together. I called Greg in from the outside.
“Greg, remember how I told you that fish get sick and die?”
“Is Broccoli dead?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. He was a good fish.”
“Let me see.”
I held him up to the bowl I tried to resuscitate him in.
Greg said, “He’s not bones.”
I tried not to laugh, “Over time he would turn into bones, but not for a while.”
I said we had to flush him and we took him to the toilet. Luckily Miss Sally had just cleaned the bathroom or I would have felt a little guilty throwing him in a five year old’s pee shrouded toilet. We dropped him in and I said a few words about what a good fish he was. Greg flushed.
Broccoli’s limp body somehow fought the current and would not go down at first. In the end, he disappeared. After the waters calmed, Broccoli, the fighter that he was, stuck his head back up from the pipe and with his dead eye looked at us as if to say, “Is that all you got.”
I, of course, said this out loud and Greg and I laughed, making up new lines, mimicking Broccoli. “You can’t flush me suckas!” Greg’s was, “I’m swimming in the toilet,” which he thought was pretty funny.
The tank re-filled and Greg flushed again.
Broccoli swims alone in his tank in Greg’s room. I reminded him to only put in half the food he did the night before.
Greg won him at the Fairfield County Fair in October of 2006. The game consists of me buying ten dollars worth of ping pong balls and Greg trying to throw them into small fishbowls of water. He made one in at the two dollar mark and my biggest fear was that he would make another one or more. Luckily he only made the one and the
carney dipped a random, non-floating goldfish out of the fish vat and put him lovingly into a plastic bag. As we walked to the car, me holding the plastic bag with him wanting to, I asked Greg what he wanted to name his new pet. Without much hesitation, he said, “Broccoli.” I made mention and repeated several times that goldfish get sick and die. Greg seemed to not care.My old boss Orlando suggested I buy the SpongeBob SquarePants all-in-one tank. It came with everything a fish that was only going to live a month needed: Tank, air bubbler, tiny white rocks, and SpongeBob character to stick in the tank as your fish would need a friend to console it during its short life.
About six amazing months into his life, Broccoli began to act funny. He’d spin. All the time. Most of the time he would spin with his nose pointed at the tiny white rocks in the bottom of the tank. When we would feed him, he’d spin up to the surface and spend hours trying to get the food to go in his mouth. The internet said it was a parasite that fish get and there was no cure. I let him spin for about two days, hoping he would work it out. I told Miss Sally that I would give it one more day before sending Broccoli to the porcelain purgatory.
The next day, he was fine. No spinning. For weeks, I would quietly ask Sally if she replaced the sick Broccoli with a new Broccoli. She denied it. I believe her. Mostly.
A year after Broccoli became a member of our family, Greg and I went back to the Fairfield County Fair and we won another goldfish. This time I only bought two dollars worth of balls and Greg’s aim was still the same. As we walked to the car, he holding the plastic bag with me wanting to, I asked Greg what he wanted to name his new pet. Without much hesitation, he said, “Broccoli.” “But you all ready have a fish named Broccoli.” He shrugged. I made mention and repeated several times that goldfish get sick and die. Greg seemed to not care.
I made a point to not differentiate between the two Broccolis. I’d comment, “Broccoli is getting bigger!” or “I like Broccoli better.” Greg would answer whichever way he’d see fit.
Today, Broccoli was hovering sideways in the middle of the tank. I tried to resuscitate him by pushing him around in a bowl of water, forcing water through his gills. He was gone.
I called Sally and asked her what her opinion was on sharing the death of Broccoli with Greg. She said I should and we should flush him together. I called Greg in from the outside.
“Greg, remember how I told you that fish get sick and die?”
“Is Broccoli dead?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. He was a good fish.”
“Let me see.”
I held him up to the bowl I tried to resuscitate him in.
Greg said, “He’s not bones.”
I tried not to laugh, “Over time he would turn into bones, but not for a while.”
I said we had to flush him and we took him to the toilet. Luckily Miss Sally had just cleaned the bathroom or I would have felt a little guilty throwing him in a five year old’s pee shrouded toilet. We dropped him in and I said a few words about what a good fish he was. Greg flushed.
Broccoli’s limp body somehow fought the current and would not go down at first. In the end, he disappeared. After the waters calmed, Broccoli, the fighter that he was, stuck his head back up from the pipe and with his dead eye looked at us as if to say, “Is that all you got.”
I, of course, said this out loud and Greg and I laughed, making up new lines, mimicking Broccoli. “You can’t flush me suckas!” Greg’s was, “I’m swimming in the toilet,” which he thought was pretty funny.
The tank re-filled and Greg flushed again.
Broccoli swims alone in his tank in Greg’s room. I reminded him to only put in half the food he did the night before.
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