by Pumpkin, as dictated to Kelly K. Ferguson
I can understand perfectly how the report of my illness came about, I have even heard on good authority that I was dead. To clarify, while more robust than spry, I remain as •healthy as ever. Please push pause on my obituary.
Yeah, as I rotate my Jupiterian body to the rays of the sun, I suffer my continued existence as a public figure, withstanding bystanders as they tap the glass and coo, “Oooooh! He’s so cute!” Deafness from age would be a gift.
It is no wonder I retreat to my hidden bed or back parlor for solace, where I continue to serve my public and deliver edicts through my trusted advisers.
That journalists should be guilty of perpetuating the rumor of my deliverance, amplifies the insult. The only verification required would be to step inside the Athens County Board of Elections, a building students pass every day rushing to Courtside Pizza.
Now that everyone's fears have been allayed, return to tossing ping-pong balls into red cups. Does anyone bring me ping-pong balls as tribute? No. Do I care for ping-pong balls? No, I loathe them. But I might enjoy the opportunity to mock the offering as it bounces down the hall, ignored.
I am aging, yes. Eleven or twelve? Or so my advisers say. Let me rest. With the upcoming presidential election, I am already tired of the inevitable parade of fools, and of the low voting turnout that allows these bloviators to return and return and return. Each election I beg all to exercise their civic privilege, but do they?
I tire. Sleep beckons. To sleep is to live. I live.