Woke up by the pool again. Must have played the fool again. Wonder what them hooligans put on the grill that stinks kind of like burnt fur and regurg’ed drinks with an undertone of the acorn and leather that’s laid on thick like Liz Claiborne. Step over with big trepidation, lift up the top off the meat cooking station to discover my homie Todd! I said “Oh my God, what grim façade do you meet me with in my wakefulness?” I had too many Stellas and they all was crisp; must I rise up in the morning with my squirrel desisted from the world, insisted as I did this instant that him up in heaven again is premature? If only reality would concur! Poke him with the tongs, dude won’t wake up. Put him on the lawn; Ray’s about to cook a steak up and this ain’t no kind of mausoleum. Got to get the high degree on. Todd’s onomatopoeia got already all used up — I mean he sizzled — ain’t nothing left but char, bone, and gristle. My heart is fissile: I mean it could break like crystal; he never learned to whistle. Don’t rake his cadaver up, wassamadda with your mind? He ain’t a lawn clipping. We been knuckleheads since old times. Dig out the batting helmet and the bat ‘cause we’re all about to have a funeral, and that’s that. We’ll do it after breakfast. We’ll do it up proper. We’ll drop all his ashes out the Airwolf copter, all singing up dirges, all spreading out blossoms, and it’s gonna b-b-b-be frikkin’ awesome!
[Brad Sucks] Where I’m livin’, it’s hard to say, wasting my time at the corner of dude and catastrophe. Where I’m livin’, it’s hard to say, but I feel fine at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
Six bong rips later: we ain’t going to the helipad, standin’ ‘round hella sad, wonder where them Stellas at. All these dudes ain’t huge on sentiment, still they want to say a little something to the benefit of layin’ Todd’s soul to rest. I cold regressed, contemplated old regrets and said “Man why he even got to do a thing like pass out on the Bar-B-King?” I’m tryin’ to bring from like recesses in my mind a word or two that wouldn’t prove unkind. Aligned as he was with the less-than-angelic, trafficking black tar smack & psychedelics in that little-ass van of his, and drunk doing it, knowing what the right thing to do was but eschewing it, it’d seem pretty probable flames are audible: that’s the duty that Todd’ll pull, not just in death, but in after-that, like the bat out the h-e-double-vertical-slat but inbound in the case of this rodent, like when he got peeled-out on and ‘sploded, or indeed when he got shanked in the joint — hella causing me to wonder if there’s even a point to our shepherdly tending of his life’s ending. Bet he’s chilling at Friendly’s and gonna be back in the neighborhood shortly, discussing how awesome it is to be portly, reporting the slant he just got on with Blister (drank till his wrists hurt, boned the ghost of your sister). The dude’s a bucket kickster when he has to be and this one wasn’t like a masterpiece so yes we’re depressed but not drastically... livin’ at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
[Brad Sucks] I’ll just wait, waving goodbye until the next time.