SPLAT!

"SPLAT" is the sound I will be making this Friday upon the moment my booze-bloated body hits the ground if my parachute fails. Yes, Laura and I are jumping out of a perfectly good plane to celebrate her birthday. Apparently, 22 years on this Earth is enough to inspire my gal to court Death in a very direct manner. As opposed to my 33 years of mildly taunting Death with a lifestyle consisting of late nights, random (and heroic) comsumption of illicit substances, and unprotected sex with crack whores.

I'm kidding about that last part. I always use condoms when banging crack whores. It's just common sense, people.

Anyway, I thought I should leave some instructions and whatnot in case I go "squish." You know, bequeath some shit to some people, since I have a lot of shit. "Shit" being the operative word in that sentence.

First- some instructions. I want my "services" at The Kimak Funeral Home in Carlstadt, NJ. This is Big Daddy Den-Den's place, and I think it would be a hoot to have the wake there. It's a nice joint, and the Kimaks are good people. Many were the nights spent there, drinking, laughing, and being...spent. I know the place well, and I think it would be appropriately creepy to have my corpse laying (lying?) on the same table I've seen so many other stiffs occupy.

Another reason I want to use The Kimak place is, I want beer. No, not for me, silly. I think Death is just about the only thing that will ever still my unquenchable thirst for lovely, wonderous malt. I want a keg for the mourners. Good beer, too, like...I dunno...Budweiser. That's it- a keg of Bud. I want a Motherfucking Keg of Bud at my funeral. I'm seven kinds of serious about this. My people need suds. Most funeral homes would probably not allow such a thing, but The Denner would hook it up. Or else I'd haunt him forevermore. My restless spirit would interrupt every time he tried to bang Judy. The Spectre of Shawn would hover over their bed, giggling and making fart noises while pantomiming sodomy. Or something sinister like that.

So, yes, beer. What else? What else? Oh yeah, I want the King Missile song "Happy Hour" (off of the album Happy Hour- see how easy I make it for you people?) played when they finally lower the lid on my casket. It's a rad tune, and I've always thought it would be the perfect number for my send off. It's such a good song. Download it now. Go ahead, I'll wait. Unless you have dial-up, in which case, I might already be dead by the time you finish downloading it. Ya bastids. For the hell of it, here are the lyrics:

"In this happy sing-song hell hole
In this torture house of glee
In this perfect playpen prison
There's so much to do and see

On this euthanasia morning
Colorful carnival of pain
Let us drink delicious poison
If they won't let us,
let's complain

Genetic engineers
Crucified our sacred hymns
While flesh fell off our bodies
And we lost our limbs"


Now, I know it seems very maudlin, but trust me, it rules. Very climactic.

So, yes, beer and King Missile. Dig it. Now I must divvy up some possessions for those precious few deemed worthy of my friendship.

I own thousands of comic books. This is no joke. I loves me some comical books, and I've been reading/collecting them since the early '70's. I keep them stored in boxes, each one holding 200-250 books. As of this post, I have 42 full boxes. Do the math, Einstein. Okay, so I did the math- it's around 8,400 comic books. Give or take. Talk about a fire hazard. I figure I'll donate my books to any and all of my friends who have children and want to interest them in reading. After all, comics helped me immensely in my vocabulary, comprehension, cognitive skills, problem solving, and other important sounding shit. It's been scientifically proven that reading comics exercises both sides of the brain, because they consist of art and text. Check this shit out:

"What Parents Need to Know

By Amye Walters
CWK Network, Inc.


Adolescent readers face a variety of hurdles, ranging from general reluctance to pick up a book to aliteracy.

Since the mid-1900s, the comic book has had a label of contraband tome. Today, the comic book – and its lengthier sibling, the graphic novel – are growing in scope and popularity. Graphic novels can be found in many libraries, both in public libraries and on school campuses. Bookstores are devoting entire shelves to the genre. Graphic novels are even in some classrooms, especially where teachers see them as a last ditch effort to lure reluctant readers.

Graphic novels and comic books offer accessibility to struggling readers.
Many reluctant readers will find graphic novels absorbing, and the books can be a bridge to more standard, weightier texts.
A July cover of the New York Times Magazine touted the comic book as the next "new literary form."
"Maus," a graphic novel by Art Spiegelman, won a Pulitzer Prize in 1986.
Many prominent writers were young fans of comic books.
Edward P. Jones, winner of this year's Pulitzer Prize, says he grew up on comic books and first read a book without pictures at age 13."


There's a bunch of other stuff of that nature online. Google it or something. I really don't feel the need to justify my lifelong obsession with sequential art. At least, not to you. Fuggin' troglodyte (Yup, I learned that word from a comic book. Google that shit, cobnobbler).

So, comic books are Good For You. Hence, all of my pals with children are (upon my demise) free and clear to pillage my collection with the express purpose of edumacating their spawn. Bear in mind, a good portion of my comics are considerably less than "kid friendly." Use discretion. I know DeanO will want all of my Spider-Man books, and he's welcome to them. Rtothemuthafuckin'K was always fond of The Punisher and Ghost Rider, so those are his. Joe Maida (as I recall) digs Daredevil and some more esoteric stuff, so he gets "dibs" on the rest of my four-color swag. Joe is an actual Comic Book Geek (I know this because he used to frequent Pegasus Comics when I worked there), but he has a wife (the lovely Judy) and two kids, so his recreational budget is limited. As such, Joe is hereby deputized to dole out my books as he sees fit. Whatever he doesn't pass on to those deserving of the fruits of my obsession are his to own. I trust Joe implicitly with my comic book collection. He's cool beans.

Okay, that was the easy part. I still need to bequeath my CD collection, my audio/video system, my photos, clothes, porn and musical gear, including The Mighty Modulus. The problem is, I'm tired. Too tired to decide who gets what when it comes to that shit. I've had very little sleep these past several days (nobody's fault but mine), and the lag time between formulating a coherent thought and typing it are ever increasing. Must make sleep.

Stay tuned, because tomorrow I give out the good stuff (by which I mean porn). Unless I die in my sleep tonight, which would just be funny.

I also have a buch of other (even less interesting) shit to write about. I shall try to get it all down here before Friday, when I leap to my (possible) Doom. Perhaps I will even write my own epitaph.

Something like:

HERE LIES SHAWN

TELL DISCOVER CARD TO STOP CALLING

HE'S DEAD


or:

HERE LIES SHAWN

"Skydiving? That's a great idea, Laura!"


or perhaps:

HERE LIES SHAWN

SOMEBODY TELL BIG AL HE HAS TO PLAY BASS AT THE SIDE DOOR THIS WEEK


or even:

HERE LIES SHAWN

BUT HIS SPECTRE HAUNTS DENNIS' BEDROOM


Whatever.

Sleepy time.