The blathering idiot was about to take a flight. He rarely flew, so he was particularly concerned with the possibility of not landing, or not landing correctly. Especially with the recent spate of air traffic controllers falling asleep, discussions of Christian Armageddon/Rapture, Mayan End of Time, and general pronouncements from certain pundits that America was on the wrong track and headed for its death, he didn’t want to get caught short, though he wasn’t quite sure what short was or why getting caught short was a bad thing. Did that mean getting caught tall was a good thing? The blathering idiot was of middling height, so where did that leave him, he wondered.
The blathering idiot made all the arrangements. He wrote out a will, though he wasn’t quite sure how to test it so it could be will and testament. He made provisions for somebody to take care of his dog. He left a love note for his on again, off again, maybe again girl friend Zelda, and a few words of advice in a note for her daughter Xenia. He hoped that she would understand to definitely NOT take any wooden nickels. Though he had never seen one himself, he heard they were a bad thing. If nothing else, it might mean you’d one day reach your hand in your pocket and find you had a pocket full of splinters.
After all the other arrangements were made, there was still one the blathering idiot had not made: his epitaph. He had thought long and hard about this. What to say that would sum up his life in a few words. He spoke with different religious leaders of different faiths and even looked in several holy books, but nothing quite suited him.
He looked up epitaphs of famous people. He didn’t quite understand the one that read: “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” But maybe he would after he was dead. He looked at the epitaphs of the not-so-famous people in big graveyard near his house. (He did not discuss it with Zelda. Things were off again with her and what she would probably recommend would not be what he would want resting above him for eternity, particularly if her last words when they broke up were any indication.)
He asked a few of his friends. One said say something witty. Another said, why say anything at all?
As the flight time was fast approaching, in an act of desperation, the blathering idiot consulted books and documents. Over and over again, a certain set of words kept appearing. He wasn’t quite sure why there were on the pages they were on. These pages were often blank, except for these words. Maybe this was a sign. Also, he had not seen them on a gravestone before, so they might have the advantage of being one of a kind, and the blathering idiot liked the idea of being one of a kind.
The person who would have his headstone carved in the event of the inevitable looked at the words and then looked at the blathering idiot oddly. Finally, he shrugged and said, “It’s your funeral.”
THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
Now the blathering idiot could go on his trip with a clear conscience and a sense of peace, knowing that the words above him would be one of a kind, and even a little cryptic like the Philadelphia epitaph. They would be the last words, and they would be words nobody could argue with, not even Zelda. And if for some reason they couldn’t find his body after the plane crashed, the words would be even more significant. They would be his words, or at least ones chosen by him. Below his date of birth and date of death, in all capital, bold letters – because that was how he often saw them – would be this sentence: “THIS SPACE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK.”
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