My So-Called Life Insurance

You ever get a nagging feeling, like you left the gas on or forgot to piss out the campfire? Like you're forgetting something but you have no idea what it could be? That's the way the last week was for me until I realized I've spent the last ten years forgetting to get life insurance. Now, I know what you're thinking, that Omar Bricks and life insurance go together like a peanut butter and asscrack sandwich. That this is exactly the kind of dainty bullshit that points to my evil twin being the one who emerged from the smoking hull of that dogsled wreck years ago. That this is Exhibit A proving that Omar Bricks has gone soft like a hard-on during The Crying Game. And those concerns are understandable. Fuck you still, but they're understandable.

But even if it chaps your nads to do so, follow my logic here. Who really needs life insurance? Some milk-fed weenie in a three-piece suit? Some middle manager from Kansas City whose idea of a good time is folding the Wall Street Journal into a sailor hat and prancing around the house while the kids are at bocce ball practice? Shit no, those guys are throwing money down a hole that they're never going to see again, it's like investing in a record company that gives a shit about quality. The only people who stand to make a little money in the life insurance business are the ones who face death on a weekly basis, either due to their vocation or a propensity for taunting the psychotic, that kind of shit. And since my vocation is official representative for the Omar Bricks Nation, it's my job to represent, and represent everything Omar Bricks stands for. Which often involves almost getting my ass killed.

So this week I decided to stop playing it like a chump and see what I could do about lining myself up for a sweet payday upon the eventuality that I take a samurai sword to the noggin or get hit in the nuts by a bus. Most of the places I called specialized in boring policies, paying off if I got my ass kicked by cancer or packed enough pig lard into my heart for that to become a problem. Talk about a snooze-fest, I fell asleep on the phone twice talking to these guys. But that was before I found Moe Sherwood, who's just about the only insurance guy out there with a little imagination or hair on his balls.

Moe specializes in policies that read like the script for a summer blockbuster, packed with incentives for kicking the bucket in exciting and edge-of-your-seat kind of ways. Like the policy I got, the "Motherfucker," it pays off double if I'm ever fucked to death by a great white shark. You may laugh, but strange shit can happen when you're skinny dipping in the ocean, especially if you're smart enough to rub a pork chop all over your body first to guarantee that you get to see some cool fish.

I swear, this thing is practically written with Omar Bricks in mind. It pays off big time if I'm ever hit by a car while hang-gliding. That shit almost happened to me last week! Or if you're ever mistaken for a deer, shot by hunters and mounted over some dude's fireplace, you're going to be one rich dead motherfucker. Electrocuted while burrowing into a sub-Saharan anthill in the middle of the night? Break out the best coffin they make, dude, because you can afford it. Hell, you can have them install a flat-screen TV inside or cover the outside with LEDs like that sidewalk in Vegas where it looks like there are jets flying over your head. Your funeral's going to be more entertaining than the last three Harry Potter movies.

Now I know what you're thinking, unless you're fantasizing about Lindsay Lohan or something, in that case I guessed wrong, but I bet most of you are wondering what good all that money's going to do me if I'm dead. And you're right on that, though I'm sure Foghat would greatly enjoy his role as the policy's benefactor, he still doesn't know how to operate the can opener and would eventually have to forage for food after he'd eaten the rest of the couch. So that whole scenario would suck butt for Omar Bricks. But you have to admit it would be pretty sweet for Navarro Bricks, the dashing Cuban ex-patriot cousin who lives in my house and is exactly like me in every way except for the convincing Cuban accent.

Hey, anything to help out a family member. Bricks out.

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