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In Heaven There Is No Pez

Last night, as I was popping a yellow (and presumably lemon) Pez tablet out of my Daffy Duck dispenser, I started thinking about death. I had never been aware that Pez and death were inextricably linked, and I have no reason to suspect that they are, but there it was anyway: the great dark spectre with the empty grin rearing its phantom head just as Daffy Duck was rearing his plastic one. The simple act of pressing back Daffy's noggin and retrieving a small, solid sugary tidbit for my efforts made me think about the transience of all pleasures great and small. 

This isn't as strange as it sounds: after all, most of our earthly enjoyments depend on the workings of a meat-based body with only a temporary lease on life. I command my mortal thumb to press Daffy's head into the open position, and out pops a consumable Pez tablet to delight my waiting innards. I dare you to try this without a body, and unfortunately bodies don't last forever. It might be pleasant to believe that the Almighty would stock his heavenly abode with Pez, even if we'd have to trade our Daffy Duck and Popeye dispensers for more celestially correct models featuring the archangel Michael or St. Francis of Assisi. But don't count on it. I'd say it's a safe bet that once our headlamps go out, we'll be hard-pressed to encounter Pez whether we spend eternity in Paradise, Hades or the communal boneyard.

Once I made the Pez-death connection, it dawned on me that there are numerous worthwhile things you can't possibly do without possessing a body -- aside from opening a Pez dispenser. For example: I have only a limited number of years left to brush my teeth, and I confess I'll miss that comforting ritual: the unscrewing of the toothpaste cap, the squeezing of the tube, the careful application of paste to brush, the brisk up-and-down motion of foamy bristles against tooth enamel, the clean mint taste and gritty texture of the toothpaste itself, the final satisfying expulsion of cold water into the sink. How many of us stop to savor the ritual while we can? It'll all be over soon enough: dead men don't brush their teeth. They can't even produce water from a tap, use a bath towel or flush a toilet. Buttoning a shirt is strictly for the living, as is the zipping of zippers or the tying of shoelaces. Some of us have already reached a point in our lives where, whether from a sense of convenience or cowardice, we might never tie shoelaces again. How sad to renounce this daily evidence of our manual dexterity, and to renounce it so prematurely. For me the tying of shoelaces remains a minor miracle, since I'm powerless to explain exactly how I do it. I don't have to think about it or draw diagrams; somehow my body just remembers. Long before this century is out, it will have forgotten how to tie shoelaces or anything else, for that matter.

Our perishable bodies come in handy for a wide range of other equally useful functions: after death, we won't be able to climb ladders and clean roof gutters, scoop out the cat's litter box, hammer nails into the living room wall, walk a restless dog four times a day, sort plastic and aluminum containers into their proper receptacles or sweep dust under the bed where it belongs. We'll find it impossible to boot our computers, play a CD or turn the pages of a book. I find the last item especially disconcerting; turning the pages of a book is an act that demands a delicate touch and rewards us with immoderate pleasure, like lots of other pleasant acts we'll no longer be able to accomplish once we're dead. How much fun can the afterlife possibly be without our humble sensory gratifications? We probably won't be able to distinguish between cola and root beer, Swiss cheese and mozzarella, broccoli and asparagus. We won't be able to tell if the pink Pez tablet is cherry or strawberry -- not that we can tell now -- and furthermore, we won't care. 

It bothers me that I won't care. I'm accustomed to caring about matters large and small, like the decline of Western civilization and male-pattern baldness. As a cynic, I'm accustomed to believing that most people, places and things deteriorate over time. But I need to SEE them deteriorate if I'm going to enjoy my cynicism. Instead, I'll be the one doing the deteriorating.

I find it sobering that I may already have committed certain deeds for the last time on this earth. Chances are I'll never again build a plastic model of a Viking ship, for example. I'll miss the fragrance of the glue, the step-by-step instructions and helpful tips ('for best results, paint the parts before assembly') and the little plastic rods to which the numbered parts were attached. It's probable that I'll never again play dodge ball, eat fried clams at a Howard Johnson's, go to Y.M.C.A. summer camp or complete a homework assignment in social studies. I may already have sung '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall' for the last time, though I somehow doubt it. It's conceivable that I might never again watch an episode of 'Mr. Ed,' visit Pittsburgh or play my old 'Jimmy Durante in Person' LP on my surviving turntable. This is a sad state of affairs, and I plan to mitigate my sorrow by popping another Pez from my Daffy Duck dispenser while I still have thumbs.

Cynic's Pick of the Week
Rookie President Dubya reversed his campaign pledge to force American companies to restrict environmentally harmful 'greenhouse gas' emissions. It makes sense: by the time the polar icecaps melt and flood Washington, he'll be safely out of office.

© 2001 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. If you'd like this column to appear regularly in  your own site or publication, write to UPBEATmag@aol.com.

Profile of a Cynic...

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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