Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
-- Dylan Thomas, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”
Just today a former high school classmate, Polly, informed me that I need to write my own obituary. This is because:
My classmates are dropping like flies and it might be catching, and
If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
So okay, Polly, here it is. I trust you and only you to edit it when the time comes.
Few Mourn Local Asshole's Passing
Infamous local asshole Hulles, [insert age here], passed away in his home last evening thrashing violently and screaming like a girl. He had been suffering from Trailer Parkinson's Disease for several years, a malady he caught from an old girlfriend, and his timely death was viewed as a great blessing by all who knew him except his mother.
He was preceded in death by his cat, Mimi, who was tragically killed and eaten by a gang of spiders the size of dinner plates. He is survived by [insert remaining members of immediate family here] and about 120 former classmates who couldn't be bothered to attend the memorial service.
Hulles was respected by almost no one, even after a number of years of court-ordered public service. We are informed that he died as he lived: friendless, penniless, and with a large erection.
Hulles attempted a number of careers during his all-too-long sojourn on this earth, including white rapper, gigolo, computer programmer, and humor writer. He failed miserably at all of them, to the surprise of absolutely no one. He is perhaps best remembered for the spectacular lawsuits brought against him by a Brazilian woman he kept mentioning in his blog, and which ironically only she ever read.
Services for Hulles will be held [insert date and time here] at [insert location here] unless the Vikings make the playoffs, in which case they will be forgone entirely in accordance with everyone's wishes.
We at the Independent add our expressions of relief to that of his friends and relatives, and note in passing that Hulles' oddly prophetic last words were “Boy, the people I owe money to are going to be pissed.”