Hello, Jerry? This is Shaman.

Hello, Jerry?

Who is this?

This is Shaman.

Shaman who?

You know, Jerry. It's me! You're little brother.

What are you doing calling me here? What time is it?

Sorry. It's a little before 7 on Friday night.

Oh, #$@$#@$! I overslept.

But Jerry, you're dead!

Oh . . . yeah, that's right. Why are you calling me?

Well, John didn't answer, and I got this new discorprophone, and I got a bunch of night and weekend minutes to use in the first month.

So you thought you'd call me, huh?

Yeah, well. Sorry if I'm bugging you. I can call back.

No, that's okay, what do you want?

It's Friday night, second weekend of rifle season, and I'm home. I'm not at deer camp.

Yeah, so?

I'm worried Jerr. Is this how it started for you?

What do you mean?

Angie and I loaded up the car and got 2 miles down the road and decided to turn around and go home. It just wasn't worth it.

What do you mean?

What wasn't? Living? What?

No, going down to deer camp. I'm tired, I want to sleep in, and Angie had a hard week. It just wasn't worth the drive and the headache of opening up the cabin. I bagged a nice doe during Muzzleloader Season. Moosie nailed another big doe last weekend.

Who the @#$@ is Moosie? Did you marry that stupid horse-face bimbo?

No, you know my second son. He's twelve now.

Oh, no, I don't know him. I'm dead, remember?

Oh, yeah. He was born the month after you died.

Yeah, John mentioned something about that to me when he got up here.

You see John much?

No, he and Graham Greene started this stinking salon scene with Gertrude Stein and some moldy Chinaman-- Lao-something. Gert's okay, but she's a rug muncher. Not my cup of tea. So I still don't see what the big deal is.

Jerry! Wake up. It's Friday night, it's deer season. I'm not going to deer camp. I'm not even sorry. I'm just scared.

About what?

About growing old, about losing it, about sitting on the porch and watching the meat pole fill up.

. . . and your point is?

What, you don't think-?

You've got one in the freezer?

Well, actually, I'm supposed to pick up the second one tomorrow from the processor.

Is the freezer filled?

It will be.

So what's your gripe?

I didn't know getting old was going to be like this.

It isn't. Growing old is when you go to bed knowing that it isn't going to get any better, it's going to get worse, and you know exactly how much worse. In my case, I had an ugly oncology nurse telling me every day. I was only 53, but it was old enough. You're probably what now, 35, 37?

46.

Hey, time flies man. Sorry I didn't send you a card. So let me get this straight: you're so bent out of shape that you had some sense and went home to sleep in a comfortable bed, that you're calling all your dead friends?

Well . . . yeah. It's never happened before. It feels really strange. . .and and there's still a big buck out there. I saw him two weeks ago. He's probably fourteen points or better. I could have had him in the morning.

Or not. There's no arguing with a full freezer. Next year he'll be a 16 pointer and the lies you tell will be all the sweeter. Speaking of which: How's Bob? Has been going out with you?

No. His stomach's bothering him. He needs to be near a bathroom.

Now there's the guy you have to watch. You? You're just finally getting some sense. Bob's on his last go-around.

Yeah, but you've been saying that since 1985.

I guess you're right.

Do me a favor, huh? Take Big Brother out the range for me. You and Bob go blow a brick or two of Super-X's for me. You still shoot at Miami?

No, we both belong to Fairfield now.

Little to refined for my taste, but oh well. Listen, I gotta get going. I gotta date tonight.

Still? I thought. . .

She's hot too-- a flight Ninety Three stewardess with a thirst for the bizarre.

Aaaacpttthth! Jerry, that's . . .that's . . .

Just a poor Marine doing his patriotic duty son. It's the rule-- women who die in the service of their country get the attentions of 12 burly Marines for all eternity.

Who made up that rule?

I was talking with Bob Mullan a while back, we found out after all this time some new guy that came in from Bag-freaking-Dad still hadn't got his cherry popped, so we rounded up a bunch of the faithful and we concocted this whole thing so PFC Roger could get his rocks off. Is was all supposed to be low key, but first John Wayne wanted to horn in, and we told him to take a hike. He's got a rep, so he can get his own. Then Ronnie Reagan caught wind of it, and started backing it as a major patriotic thing. The next thing we know, every Leatherneck has his card filled for all eternity. Pretty neat deal, huh?

Jerry, I gotta go.

So do I man. Good luck with season. Don't sweat it.

Click.