Eulogy

So, apparently there's some kind of respiratory infection going around. There's also some version of the flu going around. I managed to get both of those at the same time.

I'm just now about 80% recovered. Although it was looking very dicey there. So dicey that at some point, I decided that I was certainly going to die.

I only worry about two things being dead. One of them is, of course, where I'll end up. The other is how effusively praised I'll be at my funeral. Not that I won't be praised. I'm sure they'll find ways to lard it on at Ted Kaczynski's funeral. I'm just concerned that I won't be praised as much as I think I deserve.

And that's why, in my fever-induced haze, I took the time and energy to write a eulogy for myself. I think it's pretty good, especially if you had any idea what kind of mental condition I was in when I wrote it. So I thought I'd share it with you people. If, for some reason, I get hit by a bus in the next week or so, feel free to use it.

Remembering J

We’re all gathered here to pay our respects to J, the finest man I ever met. We come with unspeakable sadness. And not just sadness for J, who was struck down well before his time and in a manner drastically different than he would have wished*. But also sadness for ourselves, who must somehow find a way to make do without his shining presence, casting its light into our lives, illuminating the darkness, and doing all the other wonderful metaphorical things that light does for us.

I remember the first time I met J. It was [however many] years ago. I remember thinking, "My goodness, who is that man? Is that guy sexy or what? Wait a minute, aren’t I straight? So, does thinking about how sexy he is make me gay or something? Man, I hope not†."

And of course it didn’t, except from the standpoint that J’s roguish good looks would make any straight man question his sexuality.

But it wasn’t just his sexiness that made him such an all-around great person to have with you. It was his kind, gentle demeanor. I remember the times, walking in the fresh air, when a bird would alight on his shoulder, and he’d present his finger for a perch, and he’d smile at the bird and tell it to get lost, can’t you see I’m busy here. In a friendly way, though. J was friend to all animals, and they more than anyone got his abrasive sense of humor.

Yes, if there’s one adjective that springs immediately to mind when we think of J, it’s "saintly". He could even work miracles. I remember one time, I was complaining about my hemorrhoids‡. J suggested I pour a hot bath, fill it with expensive bath salts, and play the song "Ring of Fire" by Johnny Cash while soaking in it. This didn’t actually fix my hemorrhoids, but it was kind of relaxing I guess, and I learned a valuable lesson about the true meaning of the song "Ring of Fire". A lesson I will not forget until this very day.

Yeah, now that I think about it, that was a pretty lame miracle.

But he wasn’t big on the flashy dead-rising miracles. His were the smaller, mundane miracles that managed to enrich my life and I’m sure yours. Like the day I was discovered by the police in the presence of the hooker. Who was already dead when I got there, and I'd remind you all that the jury agreed. When I needed to be baled out of prison, who’s the guy who walked barefoot the 30 miles to the black market clinic, sold a lobe off his liver, and used the money to bale me out? J, that’s who. Who’s the guy who taught me the secret to wiping using only one square of toilet paper? J, that’s who.

Will we find a way to replace that man in the box there¤? Of course not. I think it’s best that we face the truth head-on that from this day forward, our lives, and the whole world, are a much poorer place than they were just days ago. I can’t give you any answers.

But we must [at this point, make sure you really turn on the water works] soldier on.

[And right here, leave the podium, sobbing loudly, and make your way to your seat. Continue sobbing throughout the service.]

* If J died in the midst of a naked pillow fight between himself, Charlize Thieron, and the actress who plays Specialist Cally on Battlestar Galactica, please omit that last part.

† This part is meant to be read by a straight man. If the reader is not straight or not a man (or I guess a gay woman might work) make the necessary adjustments.

‡Yeah, make Wayne read this. That should be fun.

¤ If J ascended bodily to heaven, please make all necessary adjustments.