A Saxophone, A Cigar, and the Timing of Eternity

John Coltrane Meets Groucho Marx

The Bardo, that destination between death and reincarnation, materialized as a vaudeville theater—empty seats, single spotlight, the smell of desperation and cheap cigars.

"Excuse me, is this the complaint department? Because I'd like to register a formal objection to being dead without my consent."

Groucho Marx stood center stage, cigar creating smoke rings that spelled out "TIMING."

Coltrane sat in the front row. "What's the joke?"

"You are. Forty years chasing perfection like it owed you money." Groucho's eyebrows performed a small ballet. "I've seen more rhythm in a funeral march. At least the corpse knows when to stay down."

"My music was spiritual—"

"Spiritual? Kid, I've seen more soul in a tax audit. You played like you were trying to bill God by the hour."

Groucho paced, cigar trailing smoke. "I bombed in front of kings and presidents. You know what I learned? The secret isn't not failing—it's making failure part of the act. I failed so spectacularly they gave me my own radio show. You failed so spiritually they called it transcendence."

"That's different—"

"Different? The only difference is my failures got laughs and yours got reviews. Both left audiences confused, but at least mine went home happy."

Groucho flicked ash that turned to musical notes. "You practiced like mistakes were sins. But mistakes are where the real music lives. You think I don't know about trying to reach something that keeps moving away? I spent my whole career chasing laughs from people who wouldn't laugh if I set myself on fire. Which, come to think of it, I should have tried."

"So what's the lesson?"

"The lesson? Kid, if you're looking for lessons, you came to the wrong comedian. I don't teach—I demonstrate. Watch this."

He attempted a pratfall, missed his mark completely, and somehow made the mistake funnier than the original gag would have been.

"See? Perfect timing is overrated. Perfectly wrong timing? That's comedy gold."

Coltrane raised his horn, hit a wrong note deliberately. Instead of fixing it, he built around it, made it swing.

"There," Groucho said, grinning. "Now you're cooking with gas. Though in my case, it's usually hot air mixed with cigar smoke and regret."

He straightened his tie. "Remember—God loves a good heckler. Keeps Him honest. And if He doesn't appreciate good comedy, I wouldn't want to spend eternity with Him anyway."

The theater faded as Groucho's final line echoed: "I wouldn't want to belong to any afterlife that would have perfectionism as a member. The dues are too high, and the entertainment stinks."

_ _ _ _

Until we meet again, let your conscience be your guide.

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