Tuesday, April 26, 2005

One Final Request.

Claude Peace Jr. passed away on April 24, 2005. His last wish was to have the following text posted on his blog. This final post was written on a pad of paper by his bedside table before he slipped into an unconsiousness state in which he remained until his death. It is difficult to determine when this was written, but he was unconscious for roughly a week.
-Mark Peace



Hello Everyone.

This is written from Beyond the Grave!. Well, not quite. In the last week or so, my body decided to take a sudden turn for the worst, like a derailed train headed straight for a dynamite factory. Somehow, through the whole process of biodegration my body is undergoing, my brain was preserved. How baffling! It must be all of those delicious food preservatives that line any food packaged in the United States. I'm still as sharp as when I was 23, when on this date I managed to stub my toe and fall down the stairs within 5 minutes of waking up.

I began life feeble and meek and that's the way it's going to end. My voice has become soft, not that it was ever particularly strong, but it has taken on a bizarre, gentle tone that makes me sound like a personified fluffy caterpillar. My daughter combs through my hair like a 5-year-old with the flu. I wear a diaper. Jesus Christ, a goddamned diaper. Yet I'm fully conscious through all of it. They don't allow me alcohol so I can drink myself into silliness so I can grasp the humor of a disgusted nurse changing my diaper. Sometimes there isn't any justice in this world.

Well, enough lurid details into my useless body and its hilarious potty foibles. The last few days, I have been doing absolutely nothing but watching cable news, soaking up as much of the fluffy good-time psuedo-news as possible. That's the great thing about channels like CNN. If you think of it as a large package delivered to your door, most of its contents is styrofoam peanuts, which are always fun. One time, a friend of mine who was a science teacher demonstrated to me that some styrofoam peanuts are safe to swallow. Delicious! It's no wonder that the nation doesn't think it's headed toward its own doom, if you stick to the styrofoam peanuts on cable news, you'd think the world was just one large perpetuating celebrity scandal. The war in Iraq worsens? Impossible! Why? Because Michaels Jackson is on trial!

This is the state the world is in as I quietly stroll out life's back door. The conservatives have a stranglehold on the United States' politics. The country is fighting two foreign wars at the same time. There's whispers and murmers of a draft being instituted. Thank God it's so hard to pay for college or else there wouldn't be anyone in the military at all.

I've never killed a man in my life. This I consider to be one of my major accomplishments. Other accomplishments include,

-Never vomiting in public
-Never killing a centipede no matter how scary they appear

Those are the two things I am proudest of. I've lead a riviting life.

This life is about to end. When I was about 40, I drew a picture of what I thought the afterlife looked like. I put a note in here to attach that picture to this post.



The white specks were not intentional, I sneezed on the damn thing within 10 minutes of drawing it.

In closing, thanks to all of you who read this blog, you must have a high tolerance level for Old. I wish you many years of healthy life, followed by a quick unexpected death in your sleep, so you don't have to go through the horrible shitstorm I've been undergoing the last few years.

Well, this is the last post that I'm putting up here. Hopefully my family respects my final earthly request, to be embalmed and turned into a living marionette, so they can have all of the fun of Grandpa without any of his dry verbal laments to a world that is ending at a rapid pace.

Have a nice week. I know I will.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

The Pope is Dead and the World Sneezed.

I took this picture during my trip to Toronto where I had doctors look at me to figure out a fabulously expensive way to keep me alive for one or two more horrible years:



Last Saturday, the Pope left his earthly, Shar-Pei-esque body to float up to heaven where he'll be playing pinochle with Jesus, who's probably pretty old by now.
Isn't that a pleasant thought? Sitting around in heaven farting around for eternity? Think of all the masturbating I can do! I can't wait!

But who was this man under the tall white hat? What makes him so important that the national news would somehow divert its flash bulbs and gawkers from the living digestive system that was Terry Schiavo towards a wrinkly old man?

PJP2, as I will abbreviate his name, was a very conservative pope in his hey-day. He spoke his mind on a lot of issues, and while I often disagreed with him, he at least had firm opinions and stuck to them.

Not so in recent years. Time and senility turned the pope into a baked potato. It's funny how our bodies strip us of all of our dignity when we would probably most likely deserve it. When I retired, The Good Years began with my wife suffering from a heart attack and dying, and it has been a slow, steady decline ever since. The pope didn't have such luxuries as retirement, it's a life-time position, so the pope's decline, unlike my own, was the center of the media's attention. Sure, he might have worn the pope's garments, but that thing being escorted around go-kart surrounded by a plastic bubble was most definitely not John Paul II.

I remember seeing footage of a little boy's mother forcing her son into the pope's claw-like, leather clad hands, all the while the boy shrieked like he was about to get a booster shot. The pope merely kissed him on the cheek, but the boy cringed for the universal act of love, then continued his squeeling as his mother took him away, embarrassed by her little boy's reaction to *The Pope* slobbering all over his cheek. Shit, I'd have squeeled too if I were the little boy, much like my grandchildren look at their parents awkwardly when their parents tell them to give grandpa a hug.

This has been a fabulous week of deaths, a resounding triumph followed by a victory lap for the Grim Reaper. Will I mourn? Yes, I will mourn every bit as much as when my vegetable garden died back when I had a home of my own to grow it.

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Why I have a Living Will


HOLY MOLY!

Said the world as they took the feeding tube away from the living baked potato Terri Schiavvo. In retaliation, Terri pooped her pants.


"Feed me!" said Terri Schiavvo.

"NO"

said the Supreme Court.

Well, if you haven't closed your browser windows because of my insensetive nakey-dance, I must explain myself a bit, but in order to do so, I must go back twenty years, back when you were probably bouncing around in your daddy's trousers....

Back then, in the stone age in which I spent most of my life, I had the good sense to write a living will. I wrote that if anything were to happen to me where I wasn't ever going to be able to make a conscious decision as to my own mortaility, the doctors have the OK to pull the plug out on me. While this is a sad thought, to be sure, I was willing to put it all on the line so my kids don't have to squabble about whether to keep daddy plugged in so he can live the rest of his life out in a hospital bed.

"But why would anyone want to live a life like that?" you may ask while scratching your ass and picking your nose simultaneously. Well, hard decisions are hard to make, and when it comes to Human Life, a little religion called Christianity seems to have the most voice in this world of computers and microwave dinners. Some very vocal Christians want to preserve every human life, regardless of their living conditions, while us no-good black-hearted "Pro-Choicers" seem to be intent on eating every baby ever in existence. But I'd just like to make one point: Poor Terri was barely a human at all. If she what she had been after the accident, she probably wouldn't want to be alive in the form of a vegetable who is fed through a tube and wreaks havoc on the hospital's electric bill. I know I wouldn't.

And this brings me back to my living will. While my kids promised to respect the living will, they have failed miserably. One of the stipulations was that if I got too old, they would get the 12-guage in the attic and shoot daddy between the eyes. Seeing as I'm still slowly falling apart like a 4th grade orchestra's rendition of Flight of the Bumblebee, I consider my kids to have failed me. I hope that you weren't too offended by this post, but I promise that my next post will be about bumblebees and sunflowers. Have a wonderful week, everyone!

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Explanations, Apologies and Eulogies

Death is something that the elderly have to face every day of their lives. Count your blessings, kids.

I recently was let out of the hospital, thus my extended absence and neglect of this blog. As it turns out, I am ill. After years of casual drinking and the occasional cigar, my body finally decided to go to the crapper. Good riddance.

I finally decided to put a picture of myself up here. I didn't want to offend the youngsters out there with a wrinkly old man, so I drew myself in a speedy little wheelchair. Don't I look like I'm having fun? Just wait a few years, then you'll get to have as much fun as me.

I also decided to change the title of the blog. "Grandpa's Blog" was a title that my grandson stuck on there. I didn't exactly like it, it didn't reflect the cheerful nature of this forum, so I changed it accordingly.

Oh, I'm sure you'd like to know what's new with everyone's favorite senior citizen. I didn't have a lot to do at the hospital last week. My wife is dead and my family lives far away, so grandpa had to sit around by himself. I talked to the nurses when they came to take care of me. I read the newspaper a lot. Great news, America, we're going to drill for oil in Alaska!

As if it wasn't enough that we're going overseas to kill people we've never met to take their oil, we decided to go to one of the few pure places in this country to rip apart mother earth in search of black liquid so our cars can fart around and polute the air. It shouldn't be too long before all of this black liquid is gone, and what will we be left with? That's right, kids, a torn up earth and our Nintendos. Enjoy it while it lasts, because I'll be dead soon enough, and you'll be stuck with a disaster-course-vessell with a madman at the healm. Have a great week!

Saturday, March 05, 2005

A little bit more about myself

Hello everyone,

Looking back on my first actual post, it is evident that I didn't include too much about myself. I hope to rectify this in the next few posts.

My favorite artist? Well, that's easy. That would be Russell Jones, commonly referred to as Ol' Dirty Bastard, because as he put it, "My style ain't got no father." Why would an old man such as myself enjoy someone like Ol' Dirty Bastard? you may ask while scratching your head like a gorilla. Well, come close my son, let met tell you: Artists are all batshit crazy. The greatness of the artist is affected exponentially by their level of insanity. Take Van Gogh, for instance. He may have been a fantastic, kind-hearted human being, but he cut off his goddamned ear. He produced fantastic works of art, but ask any typical American about Van Gogh, and if they know the name they'll tell you about his ear.
Van Gogh wasn' t appreciated during his lifetime, and died a lonely, poverty stricken man. Ol' Dirty Bastard died a multi-multi millionaire, but he has one thing in common with Van Gogh; during his lifetime his art was not as appreciated as his social status, that of a disturbed drug addict. God bless entertainment!

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Showing Up with Bells On

Greetings World,
My grandson Eric started a blog for me, wanting to hear from me more often because I don't check my E-Mail often enough with the computer that they bought me. I'm still kind of hazy as to what a blog actually is, but he showed me how to put things online using this service and it seems easy enough.

In case you're not familiar with me, my name is Claude Peace Jr. There is no Claude Peace III because my wife assured me that Claude was a very ugly name and was not worth passing down. I no longer have a wife because she's very dead now. I rarely see anybody because I live far enough away from my family and I'm just pessimistic and grumpy enough for them to want to narrowly avoid seeing me whenever the chance arrises.

I am much too old to be using the Internet, but I feel obligated since my kids bought me this flashy new computer. I was very disappointed it didn't get cable.

I'm a rare breed of American, meaning that I give a shit about the world that we live in. Well, that's not entirely true anymore, about 20 years ago I figured out that the world was completely doomed. I've told a few people that and they always look at me like I'm completely crazy. Well, when you're stuck on the television 8 hours a day anything seems a little bit like a fairy tale.

What is true that in the next few decades we will be running out of fossil fuel. I'll be dead by then, but chances are that you won't, and therefore it is your problem. Enjoy that.

For the last 150 years or so, we have been digging thousands of holes in the ground to get precious black goop so we can pour it into metal boxes that scoot around and fart poison. Our habitat has been completely polluted by these emissions, and now we're running low on goop, so we're going overseas and dirtying our hands with foreign affairs so we can drive converted military Utility Vehicle monstrosities to pick our kids up from baseball practice.

Well, enough whining, chances are you stopped reading this by now anyways because I don't have a picture of boobs on my page or anything. When I figure out how to put boobs on my page, I'll do so, but until then it's black font and a grumpy old man.

But soon I'll be dead, and I just felt like bothering you until then.

Your new buddy,
Claude Peace II

Sunday, February 27, 2005

Testing

I am testing to see if this blog thing really works.