Ah, keeping things separate from each other, a place for everything, and everything in its place. The left hand not knowing what the right hand is up to. Although, truth be told, the left hand knows what the right hand is doing, and is absolutely disgusted. It wants no part of those there filthy shenanigans. I imagine the day the first left hand found out the nasty shit the right hand got involved in, it was shocked to its core, its innocence shattered in a single stroke. Just walked in and was like, “Hey, Righty, we gotta clasp hands and pr… Oh my God! What the fuck are you doing?! That better not be my…It is! No, don’t you dare come closer! Stay the fuck away from me you nasty motherfucker! If I wasn’t Christian, I swear to God…”
And from that day, the left hand insisted it didn’t want to know anything the right hand was doing. Ignorance may not be bliss, but it sure helps with peace of mind, and old Lefty had that high blood pressure that year, and was told to take it easy and avoid stress, and keeping Righty’s dealings secret is just fine. Left hands have since issued a declaration expressly demanding not to be informed of the dealings of right hands unless except in matters of grave importance, like clinging on to the surface of a cliff, defusing a terrorist’s bomb, or deciding whether the milk goes in the bowl before the cereal.
You all know the things your right hands get up to, and thus I can’t really blame your left hands for their stance. You know you’re nasty. Yes, “you”. No, I don’t include myself in your group, thanks. Both my hands cooperate just fine. Have you ever tried to use a full keyboard with one hand? Hell, I tell you. Pure hell. Thus, my right hand is a candidate for sainthood, and I’m sure a Pope will be by for the canonisation ceremony shortly. I know there’s the whole requirement of being dead first, but all I have to do is spend the night before the ceremony sleeping on my right side, and the hand should be sufficiently “dead” come the big day, and what a glorious day it would be.
And yes, it’s only my right hand guaranteed a shot at the big gated community in the sky. Probably my left too. Maybe my right leg, the left one has always been a bit jammy. My brain would definitely not be allowed in, seeing as it’s quite the fire hazard, and there’s no water up there. Of course there’s no water. You’ll never get thirsty or hungry or tired or dirty, so what would you need water for? Shoot, you’ll never be hot or cold or wet, so you wouldn’t even need a house. Oh, you had already picked out your 50-foot HD TV and 60-room mansion? Hahaha! LOL! Dead!
Maybe I could get one of Pharaoh’s embalmers to prepare my body. They used to liquefy the brain during mummification, so that would solve my afterlife brain problem, though it would create a new one. You see, they used to take the brain out in those days, because they were convinced that the heart controlled all the body’s actions, and that squishy thing inside your skull was just, as Johnny Bravo once eloquently put it, “spare parts”. No, your heart would do your speaking for you when you got to the other side, and came back to inhabit your body with your other internal organs having been preserved in jars. Now, those were guys were considered extremely knowledgeable, well-versed in all the healing arts and all. And they used to take Pharaoh’s brain out, and send him into the afterlife with his heart. Then Pharaoh would stumble into the afterlife unable to see, hear, speak, or walk. And his fucking heart wouldn’t work either because it didn’t have a brain to control it anymore.
Then the gods would see Pharaoh slump to the ground unable to move or do anything at all, and they would roll their eyes and say, “Another one.” What, you thought DJ Khaled was a mere mortal like you? Hahaha! LOL! Dead!