Saturday, September 4, 2010

I Will Haunt The Fuck Out of You - A Respectful Commentary


Everyone wants to be remembered after they breathe their last breath. I’m no exception. I’m not in bad health, and I haven’t ratted out any organized crime figures. But still, it’s always important to be prepared for death.

That’s why I want to say in a very public way, so as many people know as possible, that there are certain ways that I do not want to be memorialized. And if you do one of these things after I’m gone, if there’s any way at all that I can accomplish it, I will crawl out of my grave-hole as some kind of hideous, half-rotten, undead Nosferatu. I will find you, and I will fuck you up, freak-style.

First: No car stickers. I don’t know who started this, or what kind of person thinks that it’s appropriate to remember the dead by slapping an adhesive In Loving Memory sign right between your city tag and the bumper sticker that reads “I’m not as think as you drunk I am,” but if you and I have been friends long enough that you’re considering this kind of memorial, just know that before I step into the warm light where I can hear the Lord calling me, I will excuse myself to go back to earth and disconnect the brakes on that car of yours, just as you try to slow down at the four-way intersection so the 18-wheeler squashes you flat, you NASCAR-loving redneck son of a bitch. Even if it gets me thrown into hell, I will destroy you and your stupid fucking Camaro. How do I know you have a Camaro? I just do.

Second: murals. In the months following my death, someone may be spray-painting some giant “Look at all the dead people I can draw in a crude 8th-grade art class style” kind of sign on the security grill of a grocery storefront, and my picture will get lumped together between Princess Di and Tupac Shakur, right below the sign that says, “Stay in school, kids. Users are losers.” This is kind of a stretch, I know. But I just want it on the record, that if you do this, you will come home at night, and I will waiting in the dark, smelling of carrion and dank earth, and I will grab your arm with inhuman strength, rip it off, and beat you to death with it.

Sampling’s out too. That should be obvious. People sampling tracks from dead folk is wrong. You know how Natalie Cole did that duet with the recorded voice of her dead father? I always thought a much more dignified way of remembering him would be to have him stuffed and mounted like some Disney-style animatronic puppet and then charge people 50 cents a pop to line up and kick him in the nuts. I don't think I've actually been recorded too often. But it pays to prepare.

Memorial websites: I raise an army of ghouls who eat you alive.

T-shirts that say “We miss you!”: Your living room starts seeping blood.

You make a donation to some organization I’ve never heard of: A portal to hell opens up in the tub while you’re taking a shower.

I think I’ve made my wishes clear. Don’t say you weren’t warned.

1 comment:

  1. And if I should die while driving, a roadside shrine with a teddy bear gets you slamming doors and levitating furniture until you go berserk and end up living in the open under a piece of scrap plastic.

    But this is dark brilliance Mr. Bibeau. Those memorial window stickers have been propagating around here like yellow ribbons.

    And speaking of yellow ribbons, you should do a piece from the POV of Tony Orlando, who sang a song about a guy *getting out of prison* after three years. For what, he did not specify, but it must have been something more than littering. Maybe the narrator plead down to lewd and lascivious conduct in the presence of a minor. But he wasn't a hostage or a soldier. It's weird that it became some kind of honor. It got stripped of original context, like the song YMCA, which I saw sung by an entire crowd, un-ironically, at a minor league baseball game.

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