He was born inside a jail to a bunch
of fiends known only as the Tree Stumps. They took doors, turned them into hand
grenades and lobbed them repeatedly at someone who's bound to be the titular
colonel. They met in a seedy bar and took things from there, slipping out to
the wasteland and drive-thru that inevitably follows. He appeared at a crowded
reefer party in order to solve the problem of his heady existentialism. The
suggestions resembled social anxiety and gentleman's agreements that never went
to California for justification. You good kind people are always so awkward towards
him and never really ask why he swallowed a beanstalk in the first place. It
was childhood issues. It was a car accident that didn't happen but should've
happened. It was a rushed event that left everyone perplexed.
Now
we all realise he is a secret agent and therefore must address his behaviour
tentatively and without prior disposition so let's maybe tone down the
questions he's raised through asking. He taught us a way of communicating
without limbs or orifices and the mind-numbing stupidity of it is we can never
thank him for it. The simple action itself caused a mighty furore all across
the internet, one that involved much swearing and fire-breathing lesbianism. It
led to our mutual breakdown and the cruisers taking advantage of that fact with
their closed-minded sensuality. They killed you in your sleep and forgot to
kiss you goodbye when they pulled up their trousers afterwards. You bitches
have a problem with that? I know I do. He was all over the weather forecast and
I guess that's where the eulogy really officially started. A dead man is always
cast among the rainfall and then blown aside by the rosebushes and other
complications. Our mothers did what they could, our fathers wore shirts and our
sisters and brothers went up the ladder to watch a punk concert. It was rude
but at least they got a megabyte out of it.
I
suppose this is the time we all guess he will be coming back to throw paint on
the furniture and tear out the hidden microphones purely out of sexual
perversion but that's a fallacy as well as a phallus. Your mind is tawdry today
and leaves me the toady to your antics. It's simply a crime to carry on, don't
you know. Don't you care? Probably in the same way as the others, underneath
the belly of your memory. Beneath the spots of boozy time we'll remember how he
put off wearing dresses to become a President of this golf club or that hotel
room. We'll recall the grass he grew to prove his theorems and the dropping
heads he spared to save bloody-faced children from their premium addiction to Sarsaparilla.
It was a long, curmudgeonly walk but he took it and never once sold on the
panties. He glared all the way to his graveyard and shot down our tears. He
shall be drunk away.
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