Betty White

“Patty!” Mom yelled. “Betty White died.”

I carefully saved the document I was working on, got up from my computer and made my way to the living room.

“What happened to Betty White?” I asked as I crossed the foyer and walked into the room.

“She died,” Mom responded. “In her sleep. She was 92. That’s two years older than me.”

“It’s just a hoax,” I replied. “She isn’t really dead.”

“No, they said it on TV. Dead, 92, in her sleep.”

“I don’t think so. It’s been all over the Internet,” I said, turning to go back to work.

“Just because you don’t want to believe it doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Besides, why would the Internet do that? It’s pretty crappy saying someone died when they didn’t.”

“I don’t know why the Internet did it. Maybe somebody thought it would make for a good joke.”

“Well, I don’t think the IRS or Social Security would think it’s too funny,” she huffed. “Betty White could get her check cut off and then what would she do?”

“Mom, I don’t think Betty White has to rely on Social Security income to get by.”

“But if that happened to me, I’d be caught barefooted. It’d be a firing pan into the fryer kind of thing,” she said solemnly.

“I don’t think you have to worry about it,” I said over my shoulder as I tried once more to go back to work. “I promise I won’t declare you dead until you really are.”

“That’s good,” she called after me. “Being dead when you are is bad enough. Being dead when you’re not would really stink!”

betty white



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