When the dead comedian does his bit, I always laugh too hard. Secretly I’m welling up, thinking of his wife and kids; thinking of myself. I start doing the maths: this much off for the decades of binge drinking, this much for saturated fats, scrounged rolls-ups, unprocessed trauma, sedentary days. If I can just make it till my son turns forty, he’ll be fine without me. If I can outmanoeuvre the cruel diseases that lick their lips, waiting to pounce. If I can close my eyes to the spiralling climate crisis.
The dead comedian beams drollery from the great beyond, moon pale under the studio lights. Knowing his fate has not faded his sparkle – he just shines differently now.
The dead comedian delivers his sweet peach of a punchline. My boy is giggling, hard, and I find myself guffawing for real.
We can travel through time: the dead comedian, my boy and I.
Taken altogether, it’s a funny kind of heaven.
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