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69 Bimbo Limbo Your old girlfriends are all in Bimbo Limbo. —Overheard But wait! The loves who pumped my life’s balloon when it threatened to drop me into jungles of ebola, seas of krakens, fast-lanes full of 18-wheelers with lungshriveling breath—they can’t have shuffled off . . . Oh, maybe one or two—breast cancer, car wreck, some disease I’ve never heard of, nor had she when Doc mumbled, “I have bad news.” The others are (I pray) like me, still keeping heads out of the river, enjoying the swim and view, though the current’s picking up, the roar ahead undeniable now as mist-clouds from the sharktoothed rocks on which the water, after a mile’s lacy dawdle-dive, explodes. Still, limbo wouldn’t be so bad. Plato’s there—and Aristotle, Socrates, Pythagoras, Euripides . . . think of the brainy conversations! And don’t think my former flames couldn’t join in. Didn’t they have the great good sense to fall for me? I’m only kidding. No I’m not. Yes I am; I don’t believe in limbo any more than hell or paradise not of this earth. Seeing the young Britney’s heavenly thighs and belowthe pubis jeans, though—and Pam before her chest apotheosissized —and Jessica, who can sing, and didn’t really say, “The capital of Hawaii is H,” and, let’s face it, looks fantastic in cutoffs . . . watching that trio do the Bimbo Limbo—How low can you go?—sounds good to me. 70 A place where that happens can’t be too far from heaven, especially if my old girlfriends are there, God being Beauty, after all, God being Love. ...

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