Hi, ummm…this is Rebecca Spitfire, the guest on this week’s episode. I don’t really know what to put here. Shit got weird so I just figured I would try to post this for Mike, considering the circumstances.
I don’t really know what to say. I’m really sorry about everything that happened 🙁
Hopefully I did this correctly.
Don’t forget to call in to the Squirt Line 419-7-SQUIRT.
Some people are scared to die because they are afraid of how they will die. No one wants a painful death and I am with that mindset. But if you live your life with that bearing over you, your life certainly can’t reach it’s full potential.
This is what many are afraid of. They fear they will not have lived their lives to the fullest. They are worried they will miss out on important experiences if they die too soon. But that doesn’t bother me. Sure, I might not have experienced the thrill of sky diving or walked atop the majestic Himalayas, but I won’t know! It’s lights out, remember? NOTHING. There is no feeling of remorse after death. There is just…more being dead.
What I am worried about, if I die before I get old, is being thought of as an asshole postmortem. I try my darnedest to be a nice guy while I’m alive but I don’t want to be the dick who leaves all his friends and loved ones with a bunch of shit to deal with. I’m not just talking about debts, funeral costs and whatnot. I’m talking about the more important, personal stuff.
“Mike and I were planning a party for next weekend. Now what am I supposed to do? That asshole had the keg reservation!”
I don’t want people saying that!
“I can’t believe he died two days before he was supposed to help me move. Dick move!”
Who is going to do my job if I die? Who is going to take care of my cat? Who is going to do the dishes? My roommates will be eating off filthy, disease-riddled dishes if I die. These are my concerns. I don’t want people to think of me as a dick who died just to get out of a few favors.
Perhaps, in an ever-amending will, I can delegate tasks and responsibilities to people. That way everyone can see that I was thinking of all my obligations along with all the things that have become expected of me.
- To Paul, I bequeath my cat. You two are great friends and I know you will lead adorable lives together.
- To Ben, I bequeath my fish. I hope they bring a comfort and serenity as the Wolf guides your walk through life.
- To my Brother and his wonderful wife, I bequeath the purchase of Christmas presents for the family on my behalf. I don’t want anyone to be a gift short, come my passing.
- To Jonny, I bequeath my desire to buy rounds of drinks at the bar. We drink together, a lot. So I’m gonna need you to pick up the slack now that I’m gone. People need gracious drinks.
Maybe that will cover my dead ass. Thankfully, I won’t have the privilege of knowing, because I will be busy with, well…nothing.
We were walking through a freshly snow covered European forest. The group of us, about fifteen or so, were chatting together and having a merry time as we trudged through trees and underbrush. I didn’t know anyone in the group except for one man, Mr. H. Jon Benjamin.
Eventually we came to a clearing in the forest and the group stopped. This seemed the perfect place for the reenactment of the worlds most notorious war criminals. A few of us played the part of the United Nations but most played the parts of war criminals throughout history. I was Stalin.
At first it seemed like a normal reenactment. The UN folk were pacing and giving speeches to the war criminals about why they deserved to die. But that all changed when H. Jon Benjamin pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the head of Mussolini.
“You’ve had enough time to contemplate your crimes,” said Mr. Benjamin, dressed in slick US military garb. Then he pulled the trigger and Mussolini was no more.
Things didn’t erupt like you might expect. For everyone but myself, this seemed to be what was supposed to happen. I was under the impression that we were merely playing the parts of the war criminals. I certainly wasn’t really Stalin!
H. Jon Benjamin stared down Hitler and fired.
He looked at Howard W. Campbell Jr. and without even the slightest wince, he put a bullet deep into his skull.
I dared not move but I was panicking. He must have sensed it because, from across the group, he smuggly looked over at me and I felt him touch my soul.
“I’m going to make this painful for you,” he said to Stalin, to me.
H. Jon Benjamin calmly walked behind me. I could feel the gun against my head even though it was feet away.
“Please. Please just do it quickly. Please just kill me,” I pleaded as I dropped to my knees in the snow.
It seemed like an eternity. I knelt there praying to a god that I never believed to exist. Begging this supposed supreme being to take mercy on me and allow Mr. H. Jon Benjamin to find it in himself to murder me as painlessly as possible.
Finally, as I clenched my eyes closed tight, I felt something against the back of my head. Was it the bullet?
I prayed it was the bullet.
Very slowly I felt a tickle and a spreading sensation through my brain. YES! It was the bullet I had begged so earnestly for.
Time slowed to a crawl, allowing me to experience the last pleasure I would ever have… my death.
As the bullet split my brain in twain, I thanked everyone and everything for the ultimate experience of my . Then I lay, face first, in the snow. I was dead. I felt the death for beats upon beats, until my heart stopped beating altogether. But I could still feel by body laying on the warm snow as the blood rushed from the inside of my body to the outside.
Then… I awoke.