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.