Ara

Ara (a’-ra): Cursing or expressing detest towards a person or thing for the evils they bring, or for inherent evil.

I hate life insurance salespeople. Their job is to make you fear The Reaper. Death hovers over us all the time. At any minute “snap” goes the tendril of life—like a rubber band stretched to its limit. And there you are in your underwear, dead on the bathroom floor, stabbed by your toothbrush after slipping and falling on it after stepping on a wet washcloth.

There’s no money to bury you and no money at all. In fact, there’s only debts—your mortgage, your lawnmower, your car, your cellphone, your airplane. Marsha will have to drop out of hotel management school and return to washing dishes at Red Lobster. Little Tim will have to forego the hip surgery and continue to limp through life with his wooden crutch. You’ll have to put your dog Butchers up for sale or adoption, and if this fails, have him euthanized and your wife will bury him in the back yard with no marker. Marsha will start shooting fentanyl to ease the pain and walk the streets at night, looking for love and companionship. Of course, your wife will drink herself into oblivion every night in preparation for burning down the house a collecting the fire insurance payout.

Payout! That’s right! Payout!

Imagine a life insurance payout! If you had purchased a $500,000 policy all the troubles would’ve never happened.

Ha! Ha!

What total BS. The salesperson fails to mention the $300 per month premium. I hate this crap. It is a number-one scam. I hate the fear-inducing bastards that sell this crap.

POSTSCRIPT

The life insurance hater dropped dead on the kitchen floor two days after writing this and submitting it as an editorial to the local newspaper the “Barn Stable Bugle.” He had no life insurance and his wife was besieged by bill collectors. To make ends meet she got a job at Starbucks. She had him creamated at her cousin Jimmy’s gas log fireplace store and buried in a bag at a pet cemetery. It was all she could afford. Marsha is contributing a modest amount to home expenses with her night job. She “escorts” older men to their preferred destinations.

So, do you have life insurance?

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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