^ This is a decent picture of me. Much better than the ones that have captured me: 1.) upchucking on that poor dog, 2.) chasing a rolling quarter into the oncoming traffic of a NASCAR race, and 3.) spray-painting "overrated" on the tombstone of William Shakespeare. Many, many years from now, I hope I'm remembered for a picture like this, and that you disregard all the bad pictures of me, such as visual evidence of 4.) the time I shoved all those kids out of the way so I could be the first one to order ice cream from the truck.
I
feel that creative writing is an honest way to make a living even
though it still feels like robbing a casino—and perhaps not getting
away with it as the crew from Ocean's Eleven did. With that
stated, my second collection of short writings, More Stories and
Additional Stories, should be available as a reasonably priced
eBook by the time you read this. I don't where I get the audacity to
keep trying, but I kind of like it.
Since
I loosely formatted the whole thing like a newspaper—with sections
for top stories, local news, entertainment, sports, and so forth—this
story fulfills the obituary portion, toward the book's conclusion,
which comes just before the deeply personal and painful-yet-funny
“bottom stories.”
And
don't fret about the title of this story. I'm not dead—not yet,
anyway, and for that reason, we all owe it ourselves to never give up
on the people and causes that matter to us. Anyway, here's “My Dumb
Eulogy.”
The
year was 1982. A young MTV shockingly aired music-related
programming. Ronald Reagan led the country on an outrageous roller
coaster ride of ultra-conservatism. And a man and a woman had some
baby-makin' sex. Their names need not be mentioned, but the youngest
child of Mr. and Mrs. Olig turned out to be the greatest human being
of all time.
The
talented visionary showed verbal promise at an early age. His first
outburst of communication was not a mere word but an elaborate
sentence: “Whoa, Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Ghost, I'm
lugging around a 10-pound load of crap here; somebody wanna change me
or what?!”
In
1987, he became the youngest person ever to be shot out of a cannon
through a series of blazing rings. His parents would later apologize
for the reckless act.
At
age nine, Nick won the Nobel Prize for coming up with conclusive
evidence that Spiderman could indeed beat Batman in a fight.
On
his graduation day, he solidified his reputation as class clown by
accepting his diploma, pulling out a toy gun from under his gown, and
pointing it at the principal before declaring, “JUST KIDDING!” He
pulled the trigger and a small banner unfurled from the barrel which
read, “School Pride.”
Nick's
legacy of peace and nonviolence was firmly established at age 22 when
he pummeled Saddam Hussein in a steel cage wrestling match.
The
following year Nick made the move to New York and won a Tony Award
for his stirring performance in the musical adaptation of the Jamie
Foxx tour de force Booty Call.
He made his contribution to the world of science by renaming that
hanging ball in the back of the throat to something plain and easier
to remember. Since then, it has been called the
“Chankakitanuevenhoto,” the Cherokee word for “simple.”
Before
game 7 of the 2017 World Series, Nick was so determined to see his
beloved Cubs win that he knocked out, gagged, and stole the uniform
of the Yankees' center fielder in an effort to sabotage the opposing
team. Incredibly, nobody detected his ruse, but he accidentally hit
three home runs and the Cubs lost.
It
was Nick who finally solved the gas crisis when he discovered
“Oligass” on Mars. The substance polluted three times worse than
regular gas and cost an overwhelming $40 per gallon.
In
2026, he was stricken with a rare terminal illness that he contracted
by sharing close quarters with Wookies. When asked by a reporter at a
press conference if the doctors had found an effective treatment, a
surly Olig replied, “Yeah, it's in my pants, jackass.” Scientists
were so impressed by the witty response that they rallied and worked
tirelessly for two months until they discovered the cure.
Nick
is probably best remembered for what he did on that fateful day on
December 2nd,
2029. A man claiming to be Jesus Christ came back to earth to judge
the living and the dead. It was Nick who boldly put the man in a
headlock, tore off his mask, and revealed that it was only the prop
comic Carrot Top starved for attention.
The
blue-eyed visionary once convinced his good friend Swinkle to stop
drinking Mountain Dew for Lent. When asked about this period of
temperance today, an emotional Swinkle acknowledged those six weeks
as the most agonizing and pointless of his entire life.
Always
a rascal, Nick once “hacked” into the opened Facebook account of
his friend Willy while he was away from his laptop. “Van Halen is
lame,” the rascal wrote, “But I sure do love me some Van HAGAR!”
When Willy returned from the bathroom, he spotted the fraudulent post
and was immediately overcome with rage. He Superman-tackled Nick
through the living room window onto a pricker bush. The fallout
persisted and the two refused to speak to each other for decades. A
month ago, when Nick and Willy crossed paths at a benefit concert to
protest the controversial Genocide of the Gingers, the pair finally
reconciled. “You'll always be my best friend and I love you,”
Willy told the departed. He then added, “Even though it's a dick-move to misrepresent a man's feelings about Van Halen.”
At
age 50, Nick deemed the phrase “drunk as a skunk” inaccurate
since skunks don't traditionally consume alcohol. He explained,
“Skunks actually prefer the dizzying highs of sweet, sweet crack.”
A
cleaned up and sober Olig opened a daring-yet-effective rehab center
at the age of 56. The program actually allowed patients to drink
booze, but the liquor was only available in a room haunted by the
chattering ghost of Joan Rivers.
Toward
the end of his life, Nick successfully argued to atheists worldwide
that since they believe in intangible things that can't be
scientifically quantified—entities such as love, hope, dignity, and
so forth—they should at least acknowledge the possibility that
another intangibility, God, can rightfully be believed in as well.
Later that day, he also convinced pious people everywhere that since
the message of God is subject to the prophets and all human beings
are flawed, the true message of God will inevitably include some
errors, and therefore, no religious ideology is going to be 100%
correct. At the conclusion of that monumental Thursday, spiritual and
secular harmony was achieved for everyone. Except the Scientologists.
Nick and everyone else still considered them a bunch of shameless
creeps.
On
June 8, 2045, Nicholas John Olig was tragically killed. With a
hairdryer in hand, he plunged into the bathtub in a misguided attempt
to blow Bubbles. He is survived by two brothers, a sister, six elated
ex-wives, an attic full of old nudie magazines, and a robot who
mostly just farts. He is not
survived by his mysterious companion Rodrigo Bubbles.
I
am that aforementioned robot, of course. And thank you all for
keeping your composure during this eulogy in spite of all the farts I
have been programmed to expel.
As
I look into the vast sea of tears before me—excluding the
ex-wives—I can only hope Nick's words of wisdom may console you.
“Yeah,
it's in my pants, jackass.”
Sure
it is, pal. Sure it is. Rest peacefully, little guy...
Now
who's up for some space-wings at the Hooter's on the moon?
