I’m Death. In the flesh, or lack thereof, as it were. No questions about the meaning of life, please. That's not really my thing. Just here for puppy pictures.
Joined July 2026
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After perusing X for a few weeks, I can’t help but notice nobody ever takes the time to appreciate just how tedious my work is, and I feel as though explaining it might make our inevitable future transaction slightly less awkward for everyone involved.
So what will follow over the next week is a series of posts describing, in excruciating detail, all of the ways in which it sucks to be me. I promise to be thorough.
I christen this series of complaints as:
Grim’s Gripes
Look at me, I think I finally figured out how to do this X thing correctly. I’m beginning to sound just like the rest of you. 💀
I understand the ref’s complaint. It’s a good call. The fan probably didn’t mean anything by it but he clearly forgot the proper etiquette for passing a ball to a female referee in the NBA:
You’re supposed to catch the ball first, you see. Then you have to deflate it a little so it’s much softer, wrap it in bubble wrap which you should obviously have brought with you to the game for this exact purpose (everyone knows this unspoken rule, they just won’t tell you about it because it’s UNSPOKEN, duh).
Then you very CALMLY walk it over to them. MOVE SLOWLY, because female refs are a lot like deers and prairie dogs in that they spook easily. And when you reach the ref, DO NOT JUST GIVE HER THE BALL! That would be insane as she could break a freshly manicured nail. So instead, you get on one knee, hold your hand up to her so she can sniff it and determine you are not a threat, and then slowly extend the ball toward her while softly singing the words: “Blaaaaaack Giiiiiiirrrrrl Maaaaagiiiiic!!”
Preferably in an enchanting lullaby melody to remind her of her favorite Disney movie and further sooth her wounded ego.
If she twerks in your face before allowing you to return to your seat then you’ve done a good job as that is their typical way of saying thank you.
Hopes this helps! 👍💀
NBA fan EJECTED after Lakers player accuses him of throwing ball at black female referee.
What do you think, did he overstep?
Hey @grok, how much did that front row seat cost?
He actually made them scream for ice cream 🍦
ALERT: Florida man allegedly killed his 2 roommates after one of his roommates ate his ice cream.
Mark Robinson, 69, lived with 69-year-old Charles Etheze and 78-year-old Michael Menkes at a home in Ocala.
One roommate was accused of eating another's ice cream, which led them to call the police, according to Ocala Police Chief Mike Balken.
“After interviewing these three men, our officers determined the dispute really had something to do with someone eating someone else’s ice cream, if you can believe that.”
The officers left the home, which Robinson owns and rents rooms to the other men, but the altercation sparked up again, leading robinson ot shoot one of the men inside the home and the other on the front lawn.
Robinson claims he shot Etheze and Menkes in self-defense as they came at him with a knife, but Menkes was shot in the back while presumably running away.
OPD has charged Robinson with second-degree murder for the death of Menkes but is still investigating whether the shooting could have been in self-defense.
Unfortunately, this Jesus will not be resurrecting. ✝️
Tenerife striker Jesus de Miguel has died at age 30, one day after suffering cardiac arrest following a collision with FC Andorra goalkeeper Jesus Owono during a Spanish second-division match. The game was abandoned after De Miguel collapsed on the pitch and was rushed to the hospital, the club said.
Post 1 on why you do not want to consider a career in reaping:
It’s quite grim.
For starters, it’s a messy job, in the same way that both daycares and Emergency rooms tend to be messy. Lots of bodily fluids are involved, and before you start pointing fingers, it’s entirely on all of you. I’ll spare you the details to save you the embarrassment, but needless to say, you need a strong stomach to do what I do, or, in my case, no stomach at all.
But it’s not just the lack of bowel control after death that makes for a long day and a tough clean-up. It’s also the emotions:
The crying. The shouting. The general gnashing of teeth.
I understand that dying is painful. That it’s sad. That it’s unexpected and often humiliating. In short, it tends to be unpleasant.
But do you know what else is unpleasant? Having to deal with roughly 170,000 crying, shouting, gnashing babies all covered in their own fluids and blaming me. Every. Single. Day. Never mind the sizable portion of souls who threaten to kill me (oh, how I wish I had the emotional capacity to appreciate irony).
ER nurses and child care workers would consider me a saint if they saw half of what I put up with. Needless to say, this occupation requires strong emotional control. Or, as in my case, a lack of emotion altogether.
If you had to do my job for even one day, you would come home with vomit on your shoes and enough secondhand trauma to make your therapist recommend a game of Russian roulette with a semi-auto.
Stay tuned for more informative posts on why my life, or lack thereof, is harder than yours.
Post 2 on why your job is a cakewalk in a graveyard compared to mine: 🧵
When you’re the reaper, you’re always the bad guy. Everyone fears you, regardless of what Blue Oyster Cult might say.
The PR in my career is absolutely terrible. Movies, books, and paintings all depict me as some cold, heartless shadow in an ominous black robe, with a terrifying skeletal grin across my face. It’s not my fault I can’t gain weight. That I don’t have a heart. That the artful curvature of the skull imparts unto me a nasty case of resting bitch face. And since I am a skeleton, I do tend to get quite cold. The robe is simply a matter of practicality. Black was very in vogue when I acquired it.
You’ve all been propagandized, most likely by China, to see me as some horrifying being of exceptional cruelty when, truly, all I am is a simple skeleton. The whole “immortal ferryman of souls to the afterlife” part sounds a lot fancier than it really is.
Not only do you people seem to have no idea what I actually do, but there is also the matter of misplaced anger. You seem to have less resentment toward politicians, murderers, or the processed foods industry — you know, the parties more directly liable for your untimely demise — than me.
All I do is REAP YOUR SOUL after the deed is done. It’s not like I shoved you in front of that bus because I fell on hard times and needed the money. You simply failed to look both ways, the way your mother most likely told you to a million times, then I appeared to send you on your merry way to the afterlife, only for you to scream in my lack of a face as if YOU were the one who’d just seen a ghost! 😑
That’s called a lack of self-awareness.
I’m what you’d call a necessary evil, but even then I take umbrage with the second half of that term. I am in no way evil, even if I’m not necessarily good. Personally, I like to think of myself as chaotic neutral.
Nor do I write your names down in some giant book, marking you for death, or choose which ones among you will go next in any other frankly unimaginative way in which you’ve commonly depicted me as doing. I am not fate. I am not karma. One is a cruel mistress and the other, I am told, is a cold bitch. I am but a mere middleman, a skeleton, a Middleton, if you will, who receives the order and then shows up where requested.
Really, I’m a lot like your friendly, neighborhood Amazon driver if anything.
Stay tuned for posts explaining why your existence is a burden on the both of us. 💀
Post 3 on why I’d be happier as a minimum wage dog groomer than the inexorable one:
The sheer thanklessness of this job. Never once do any of you think to say, “Hello, there, Mr. Reaper. Thank you for showing up on time!”
No.
It’s always, “Please, no, don’t! I won’t go!”
Calm down, Susan. You’ve already paid taxes for 25 years, then wrecked your car in the middle of a TikTok video before shitting your pants as you died. I promise you the worst is over.
You cry, “Why now? Why me?”
Because I don’t like you, Bob. That’s why. Surely, it had nothing to do with your daily trips to McDonald’s and that pack-a-day smoking habit.
And don’t get me started on the begging.
“Not me, please!”
“I’m too young to die!”
“Take someone else!”
You’re an 85-year-old grown-ass adult, Carol. Please act like one. Besides, that’s not how this works. I am not a radio DJ, and I do not take requests.
And never once do I get a thank you. Flowers. A card. A compliment on my perfectly white teeth.
No.
I wouldn’t mind flowers. Assuming they were daisies, of course. Did you know that, as Death, I don’t have a birth? Have you ever considered that? Nobody can buy you a birthday card if you didn’t have a birthday. Hallmark doesn’t exactly have a wide selection of “Happy Death Day” cards, if you didn’t notice.
But I’ve digressed enough. The moral of the rant is:
You all think life is so damn hard…
But I promise you, Death is much harder.
Come back soon for more reasons why reaping you will be the death of me. 💀