If Albert Camus Wrote Colonial Penn Life Insurance Commercials

Mother died today.  Or maybe yesterday, I can't be sure. 

The Home for Aged Persons is at Marengo, some fifty miles from Algiers. It seemed to me absurd that in this empty God-less universe without any meaning or purpose it was necessary to shell out 15 dollars (30 bucks round trip!) just to ride a smelly and bumpy auto-bus to attend one's mother's funeral when I could just as well have stayed home and watched Django Unchained if I wanted to hang with dead people. 

Upon my arrival at the asylum I met with the director of the facility.

"I know how hard this must be for you," said Monsieur le Directeur. "Now I suppose you'd like to see your mother?"  

"Nah," I replied, "what ya got to eat here? You got cable?  Last season for True Blood, you know!"

The director seemed a bit surprised by my response, but not at all judgmental.

"Holy crap, Monsieur Meursault!  Mr. Touchy-Feely you ain't!  But there's something more I wish to tell you.  About your Mother's final expenses."

"I knew it. Mahjong losses! I should have known better than to put her in a Jewish retirement home."  

"No, that's not it at all, Monsieur Meursault!   You see, your mother had life insurance through the Colonial Penn Insurance Group. All her final expenses were paid."

"“How could Mother have secured life insurance?” I asked the director. “The way she huffed and puffed Gauloises, she had long ago been designated a Superfund Site by the EPA.”

"With Colonial Penn," explained the director, "your acceptance is guaranteed." 

                                                             
"There is nothing guaranteed in this cold soulless universe, Monsieur le Directeur, except death and rejection by cheerleaders."

"Not so, Monsieur Meursault.  With Colonial Penn, you cannot be turned down for any reason."

"What if you're on death row after having murdered an Arab?"

"I ... uh .... suppose that's okay.  And there's no health questions."

"Like are you a syphilitic pimp or a drug addict who'll turn tricks for a bottle of NyQuil?"

"Boy, you’re tough!  Who picked you for this commercial, the same guy who green lighted Gigli?"

"You see, Monsieur le Directeur," I explained, "we live in an absurd universe and our only option short of suicide is to seek to create within ourselves our own subjective and individual meaning, truth, and purpose. I've got the Cliff's Notes if you want to know more."

Suddenly I heard a voice.  It was familiar and reassuring.

"Hello, I'm Alex Trebek, compensated spokesperson for Colonial Penn Life Insurance. You know what that means: I'm Colonial Penn's bitch.

If you're between the ages of 50 and my age, now you can get life insurance for less than 35 cents a day. That's less than the cost of a newspaper, if anyone ever read one anymore.  And your rate will never go up and your paltry misleading benefit will never go down."  

Gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, I opened myself up for the first time to a universe throbbing with meaning and purpose.  I realized at last that the answer to the mystery of existence was life insurance from Colonial Penn Insurance Group. Who could ever doubt the venerable host of Jeopardy? Who could doubt the man who's been bringing us Potent Potables for over thirty years? 

"Y'know, Monsieur le Directeur," I said,  "I'm going to call Colonial Penn today!"  

"You'll be glad you did."

 "Or maybe tomorrow, I can't be sure."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rhinoceros Impoceros

Jean and I were sitting in our favorite café in Toulon, Gauloises in hand with yellow stains down to our fingernails, when I saw a quite peculiar thing. I just happened to be looking up from my Verlaine, and there, running down the streets of the town, was a rather large pink rhinoceros.

“Jean,” I said, “did you see that? A pink rhinoceros is running down the streets of Toulon. There he has mowed down Fat Francois and is now dancing with Madame De LaTour!”

“Non, il semble que j'ai manqué ça," said Jean.*

“Jean,” I replied. “Why are you speaking French?”

"Je ne sais pas," he answered. "Nous sommes français, ne sont pas nous?**

"Yes, Jean, of course we're French.  But this is a translation of an absurdist short story from French to English. Assistant Professor Herbert Mishkin of the University of Havertown PA is being paid good money by Shmendrick Press to make sure we’re all speaking English!"

"Eh bien," said Jean. "Vous disiez sur un rhinocerous?"

But the rhinoceros itself was of no moment any more! I was very troubled by this disturbing event concerning Jean, so I finished my Alsatian beer, bid him "Adieu" --- I mean "Goodbye!" --- and returned to my apartment.

As I departed, I did happen to notice the rhinoceros had formed a conga line with many of the townsfolk in tow.

Madame Foucault, my landlady, greeted me as I arrived home. A fine woman with a hint of wistful sadness and a wart the size of the Cathedral at Rheims, she began to beat at me with an enormous loaf of French Bread. You see, I owed her some rent stemming back to 1937, which was a bit odd since neither of us had been born then.

"Madame Foucault," I said, "a most curious thing. My friend Jean can only speak French!"

"Donc?" she replied. "Nous sommes français, ne sont pas nous?"

"Oh crap!  You too?!!  This is supposed to be an English translation by Professor Herbert Mishkin! He’s an expert on Romance languages! At least that’s what it said on his resume."

"Est-ce que quelqu'un n'ont pensé à vérifier son resume?" asked Madame Foucault. "Peut-être il a menti?" ***

"But how could that be, the guy’s supposed to be Jewish! He’s up for tenure. There’s going to be hell to pay!"

I ran out into the street and all around me I heard the sound of French:

"Vous êtes un cochon!"

"Quel est le problème avec vous, visage de merde!"

"Maintenant venir et écouter mon histoire d'un homme nommé Jed ..."

Every line of dialogue was in French.  Even descriptive passages were now in French! 

I was seized with despair! Had Professor Mishkin deserted us? In a Mishkin-less universe, was life nothing more than a pink rhinoceros leading a conga line?  Not that I hadn’t seen worse acts in Toulon!

And why did I yet speak English? I longed to be like all the others, speaking in my native tongue, pondering the meaning of existence, and insulting American tourists.

“Professor Mishkin!"  I cried out. “Professor Mishkin! When are your office hours?"

I heard a voice.

“They would have been in an hour, Berenger," it said, “but I was so wasted last night right now I’m home with the clicker."

"Professor, everyone here is still speaking French! WTF???"

“Truth is, Berenger, I’ve been so damn drunk this week the only character I’ve been able to translate so far is you."

"Why only me?"

"You’re not that difficult to translate, you’re fairly simple-minded. Now, Madame Foucault --- that’s a character!"

"Thanks, Mishkin."

"Oh, you're most welcome, Berenger."

"Now cut the literary slurs and get back to the job! Thousands of students taking Intro to French Lit won’t have anything to read along with their Cliff’s Notes!"

"Yeah, but it’s a Friday and, heh heh, I got me something going this weekend. I’m counting on you, Berenger, to stall Shmendrick Publishing until Sunday. Monday, if I get really lucky."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just keep speaking English," said Mishkin. "Cut off any of the characters that try to speak in French.  Talk over any exposition or descriptive passages that creep back into French as well.  Just til I get back."

And so, I live in a land of desolation. Of lies and deception. Of creased pages, bookmarks, and chocolate stains.

Until Sunday.  Maybe Monday. 

Do I still believe in Mishkin? 

Yes, I do.  That is, provided he knows how to reciprocate.

You see, on page 47, there’s a character named Michelle la très chaude ….****

 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

* "No, I think I missed that."

** "I don't know. We are French, aren't we?"

*** "Did anyone verify his resume?  Maybe he lied."

**** "Michelle, the very hot!"