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Wix Widegullet Retires
Yes, good ol’ Wendell “Wix” Widegullet has just this very morning begun his retirement. But, just like every other one of us that manages to survive to retirement age, it has been a long, strange and calculated trip for Wix to have arrived here at last, upon the first hole of the Bernie Madoff Memorial Links in Bagman, New Jersey, for his 10:00 am tee time.
To allow you to comprehend just how challenging a journey it has been, let me recount the steps (in reverse order):
A mere fifty-nine minutes ago ago, frantic Wix descended upon the just-open doors of the nearest Sam’s Sports Outlet, to quickly purchase balls, clubs, bag, tees, greens repair tool, cleats, comfort inserts, athletic socks, glove, towel, zinc oxide cream, and that cute little striped golfer’s tam he suddenly seems so proud of. In all of his previous decades of clawing through the management morass of multinationals, Mr. Widegullet had never before had the time, energy or inclination to take up the sport of golf. Besides, he figured, how difficult could it be to pick up the witless pastime in a few short hours, since almost every other aged bozo on the planet was apparently already doing it?
In the half hour preceding his shopping spree, Wendell had raced to a distant branch of Scoundrel’s Trust Savings, where his sideline squeeze, Pepper Ponzi of the flaming red (WWW suspected artificially tinted) hair, surreptitiously opened the deposit box vault, so Wix could stash a mill or two of his questionably gotten gains. It was just a vicious and unfounded rumor that many of the unforwarded health care premiums of Wix’s various co-workers somehow found their way into his rainy-day account, but he was taking no chances. Better, too, that the soon-to-be ex — not to mention the grasping rebellious kids, or any soon-to-be-retained marital litigator — was not aware of that particular account.
Of course, for most of the early morning prior to his banking excursion, Wix had paced the white shag carpet of Pepper’s suburban sex chamber, back and forth, to and fro, soothing and persuading. It had required all of his voluble verbal skills and mushy maunderings to convince the peppery Pepper that they were destined to be together, and, yes, he would be filing for divorce immediately, and, no, he didn’t think she had lost any of her supreme physical attraction or lusty magnetism upon turning 49. (Although, at the same time, Wendell was under no illusions as to what Pepper saw in him. In his experience, no woman with sexual favors yet to dispense squandered them upon a bald, boring dude with bushy eyebrows, a sappy grin, a wide gullet and an amorphous physique — if one could call it that — without ulterior motives. Lost of used, non-sequential, unmarked, legal tender ulterior motives.)
Late last night, Mr. Widegullet had remained in his drab gray cubicle of an ‘office’ at AnonyCorp America, writing out in his careful spidery pencilings each of the remaining steps that would lead him to the morning links. After all, he had never really been that good at long-term (or short-term) planning, and he wanted to be sure not to screw up his single last best chance at some measure of bliss. (However bland that bliss might seem.)
All of the remaining previous steps that had brought Wix from his pram to his dawn stance over a teed-up golf ball were just as tedious and unremarkable and predictably unpredictable as anyone with their own fretful life to live might guess. And they’re not very interesting, either.
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