Life over. I win.
I know how I’m going to die. Last night during a massive alcohol bender I had a prophetic vision of my own death. I will be shot in the back of the head at the age of ninety by the jealous boyfriend of a twenty-two year old Victoria’s Secret model.
It’ll happen in Germany the morning of June 6, 1944 as I’m kicking a Nazi general down a flight of stares in the hopes that a collection of broken bones, lacerations and internal bleeding will distract him from the fact that it’s raining pissed off, well armed Americans.
This leads me to believe that my death occurs sometime after I score the patent on the first time machine so by then I will have already made the trip back to Italy 1392 where I kick Jerry Falwell naked and screaming out of a Chinook helicopter over a massive bubonic plague zone.
The 1392 trip will of course happen before the trip to 22 A.D. That’s when I meet up with Jesus and say, "Hey, man, love your work! You are the bomb! Especially that water-to-wine thing. That was awesome! But, you know, as long as you’re doing water-to-wine, they have this stuff in my day called Jack Daniel’s..." I don’t remember how the rest of that trip goes.
But I do remember that I go back to 1995 and show up in Sally Smith’s room about twenty minutes after she said she didn’t want to go out with the seventeen-year-old me and cause her to have a spine dislocating orgasm simply by showing her photos of the vault formerly known and the Grand Fucking Canyon where I keep my piles of filthy money. On the way out of her house I bitch slap her little brother to death for having ripped off my Dukes of Hazard lunchbox in the third grade and I headbutt her mom a couple of times because I never liked how that bitch looked at me.
I also have a conversation with my younger self. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have. There’s that whole thing about causing a paradox within the space-time continuum which could maybe blot out all of existence, but I figure fuck it, I never liked you all anyway. I tell my younger self to never be afraid to ask a girl out and that "Hi, I’m Louis." or "Hi, what’s your name?" are perfectly good opening lines. He doesn’t have to try to be clever or anything. He says he’ll remember that. He also promises me that he’ll never take up smoking or buy an Xbox or spend more than an hour a day in front of the TV unless he’s watching a really good movie. He swears he’ll work out four or five times a week and he’ll definitely take up that mixed martial arts class and learn how to play both the guitar and the trumpet. He says he probably won’t take a semester off from college but if he does he sure as hell won’t let that semester turn into seven years. He swears he’ll write every day. When he’s twenty one he has his first novel in the can and it’s a good one. He makes good on all his promises because he’s a stand up guy and I kind of wish I’d seen that sooner. Before I go I also let him know that the really hot girl he’s going to meet at that bar on New Year’s does in fact have a giant, manly penis. He is especially grateful for this bit of information.
There are a few other sexcapades I could tell you about (the three way with Catherine the Great and Queen Elizabeth I, the Oval Office orgy 1961, Phoebe Cates on the empty set of "Fast Times" at 3 AM, dripping wet in nothing but that red bikini and a leash) but a gentleman never tells.
Besides, the death scene is the good part. It usually is with any good story, right? There I am standing on top of everything, tuxedo ripped in just the right places so you can see rippling muscle, I’m just lighting up a smoke with my gold zippo, one hand in my pocket, feet apart in a classic gunslinger’s pose, totally indifferent to that trickle of blood running down one side of my face. Even with the gaping exit wound in the center of my forehead I’ll leave a good looking corpse.
It’ll be good exit. It’ll be a good moment to have at any point in life. And I will be completely of that moment. The past won’t be messing with my head during that moment. All the bad things I’ve done won’t be gnawing at my guts, making me wish I’d never been. I won’t be regretting the things I missed out on or the things I couldn’t set right or do right in the first place. All that’s in the past and when I’m honest with myself there really isn’t a thing I’d like to do over, because even those bad things are a piece of the story of me. Those are the parts of the story the hero has to struggle through to earn his sexy death scene. And I do have a sexy death scene.
One second I’m standing there all fast and sexy and dangerous and then...
BLAM!
Life over. I win.
It’ll happen in Germany the morning of June 6, 1944 as I’m kicking a Nazi general down a flight of stares in the hopes that a collection of broken bones, lacerations and internal bleeding will distract him from the fact that it’s raining pissed off, well armed Americans.
This leads me to believe that my death occurs sometime after I score the patent on the first time machine so by then I will have already made the trip back to Italy 1392 where I kick Jerry Falwell naked and screaming out of a Chinook helicopter over a massive bubonic plague zone.
The 1392 trip will of course happen before the trip to 22 A.D. That’s when I meet up with Jesus and say, "Hey, man, love your work! You are the bomb! Especially that water-to-wine thing. That was awesome! But, you know, as long as you’re doing water-to-wine, they have this stuff in my day called Jack Daniel’s..." I don’t remember how the rest of that trip goes.
But I do remember that I go back to 1995 and show up in Sally Smith’s room about twenty minutes after she said she didn’t want to go out with the seventeen-year-old me and cause her to have a spine dislocating orgasm simply by showing her photos of the vault formerly known and the Grand Fucking Canyon where I keep my piles of filthy money. On the way out of her house I bitch slap her little brother to death for having ripped off my Dukes of Hazard lunchbox in the third grade and I headbutt her mom a couple of times because I never liked how that bitch looked at me.
I also have a conversation with my younger self. Yeah, I know I shouldn’t have. There’s that whole thing about causing a paradox within the space-time continuum which could maybe blot out all of existence, but I figure fuck it, I never liked you all anyway. I tell my younger self to never be afraid to ask a girl out and that "Hi, I’m Louis." or "Hi, what’s your name?" are perfectly good opening lines. He doesn’t have to try to be clever or anything. He says he’ll remember that. He also promises me that he’ll never take up smoking or buy an Xbox or spend more than an hour a day in front of the TV unless he’s watching a really good movie. He swears he’ll work out four or five times a week and he’ll definitely take up that mixed martial arts class and learn how to play both the guitar and the trumpet. He says he probably won’t take a semester off from college but if he does he sure as hell won’t let that semester turn into seven years. He swears he’ll write every day. When he’s twenty one he has his first novel in the can and it’s a good one. He makes good on all his promises because he’s a stand up guy and I kind of wish I’d seen that sooner. Before I go I also let him know that the really hot girl he’s going to meet at that bar on New Year’s does in fact have a giant, manly penis. He is especially grateful for this bit of information.
There are a few other sexcapades I could tell you about (the three way with Catherine the Great and Queen Elizabeth I, the Oval Office orgy 1961, Phoebe Cates on the empty set of "Fast Times" at 3 AM, dripping wet in nothing but that red bikini and a leash) but a gentleman never tells.
Besides, the death scene is the good part. It usually is with any good story, right? There I am standing on top of everything, tuxedo ripped in just the right places so you can see rippling muscle, I’m just lighting up a smoke with my gold zippo, one hand in my pocket, feet apart in a classic gunslinger’s pose, totally indifferent to that trickle of blood running down one side of my face. Even with the gaping exit wound in the center of my forehead I’ll leave a good looking corpse.
It’ll be good exit. It’ll be a good moment to have at any point in life. And I will be completely of that moment. The past won’t be messing with my head during that moment. All the bad things I’ve done won’t be gnawing at my guts, making me wish I’d never been. I won’t be regretting the things I missed out on or the things I couldn’t set right or do right in the first place. All that’s in the past and when I’m honest with myself there really isn’t a thing I’d like to do over, because even those bad things are a piece of the story of me. Those are the parts of the story the hero has to struggle through to earn his sexy death scene. And I do have a sexy death scene.
One second I’m standing there all fast and sexy and dangerous and then...
BLAM!
Life over. I win.
posted by Louis at 9:26 PM
1 Comments:
hey buddy!
you're a genieus. I wish I were more like you.
My heart is very broken these days that people like WBC can exist. I thought it was all a joke.
Check out my poem "THeir god is not my God" on "prayforwestboro.blogspot.com"
Later
You know who I am.
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