“Man, why do you even bother paying attention to the Rite of the Dividing River? It doesn’t even matter, it doesn’t even fuckin’ matter, man, who wins the stone-axe duel to determine the next High Chief of the Tribe of Twelve Stars, because real power and control is gonna stay in the hands of the same people: the tiny brown people with three eyes who live inside every tree and every antelope. They’re the ones who really control us, man.”
My friend: “All these girls dressed in Mad Men clothes, but just for Halloween. Don’t they realize they could be this pretty all year long?”
Me: “I think you may have missed the point of that television show you just mentioned.”
So this happened.
I’m not a “god guy”, so I don’t really have any instructions for my body or funeral arrangements after I die. I will not be around to know if they’ve been carried out. Even if there turns out to be life after death, I doubt I’ll care. And even if I cared, my caring would probably be limited to hoping there is a Magnetic Fields dance party at my wake. I certainly would not be sitting on my cloud angrily chewing on my halo and grumbling, “I fucking TOLD those bastards to use my obituary to promote green energy and denounce the works of Glenn Beck!”
Not this dude, though! This dude feels so strongly about the shittiness of a president who will be out of office anyway within six years that he’s willing to devote space, in literally the last communication he will ever make to the world, to his dislike of Barack Obama.
The smart-people monasteries in Neal Stephenson’s “Anathem” are looking better by the goddamn minute.
It’s a riddle. Goes like this:
Q: Why does Beyonce Knowles wear red suspenders?
A: To keep her pants up
Up on her butt
Her big ol’ butt
While she dances around
They started to slip
Now she’s gonna trip
‘Cause her pants are fallin’ down
Sometimes the pure spirit of comedy just speaks through me, you guys.