Sunday, July 24, 2011

The Final Expletive - Steroid Joe's Last Will And Testament

Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming. My name is Lawyer D. Esquire, and I've been retained by the family of the deceased to execute his Will, as it seems no one else would agree to do so. Your presence at the reading of the Last Will and Testament of ... [looks at notes]... Steroid Joe, was requested because each of you has been named in the document. Now, I have been briefed on the incident - for lack of a better word - that took place at this man's memorial service, and I just want to implore all of you to behave civilly. I've just had my office redecorated, and I would like to avoid any damage, if at all possible. Okay, let's begin.

"I, Joseph Userov Steroids, being of sound but rage-y mind and body, do hereby declare this document to be my Last Will and Testament, blah blah blah." It actually says 'blah blah blah,' ladies and gentlemen. "I officially, lovingly and not at all sarcastically do hereby bequeath the following:

My collection of-- Please don't interrupt; I don't see anything about a Camaro. Okay. My collection of 277 vinyl record albums - to my mother. They're in your basement anyway, Mom. Might as well keep 'em.

My driver's license - to my brother, Andrew. You can use it to get into bars, just like old times. Don't tell Mom.

My collection of DVDs - to my electronic and possibly nonexistent Oklahoma friend, Melanie, with the following exceptions:
  • "Hairspray" and "Moulin Rouge" shall go to my niece, Elizabeth, because she's a DANCER. There's a note here that says "Lawyer must read 'because she's a DANCER' the same way John Belushi says the final line of the Saturday Night Live film 'Schiller's Reel: Don't Look Back In Anger.'"
  • Also, my copy of "Hamlet 2" goes to the Ecker family, so that they can perfect their "Rock Me Sexy Jesus" routine.
  • Finally, my 'Futurama' DVDs go to my brother, John, because he's probably the only other person I know who appreciates that show.

My VHS-- No, I still don't see anything about the Camaro. Please let me finish. My VHS Rocky and Bullwinkle collection, as well as my Christopher Moore, Douglas Adams and Mark Leyner books - to my friend, co-conspirator, chemist, mason, kiln operator, spokesman, designated driver, reverse ghost writer, mentor, student, manager, bail bondsman, fry cook and guru, Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name). Mister Ozzenbarq (not your real name), whether or not that is, as you say, bullshit, is neither here nor there. I did not decide who gets what. I am reading what your friend wrote.

My cameras, lenses and accessories - to my beloved [Maris], because she's the only person I can tolerate taking pictures better than my own.

My collection of Lionel trains - to my nephew Kevin, but if he starts deliberately wrecking them, Aunt [Maris] is hereby directed to take them away from him until he is 30 years old.

Ladies and gentlemen, please stop shouting 'Camaro' at me. I am reading exactly what is on these pages. Please.

Any Patron Silver that survives me - goes to my old BossLady, who is responsible for introducing it to [Maris] and me. In the highly-probable event that she doesn't show up for the reading, give it to [Maris]. Actually, never mind - just give it all to [Maris].

My photographs are to be divided between my beloved [Maris], my mother and my sister, Mary. [Maris] is to receive any pretty ones in which the sun is shining, and Mom and Mary are to receive in equal shares all the dark, foggy, rainy or otherwise gloomy ones.

Again, if I see 'Camaro,' you all will be the first to know. Please let me continue.

The comic strip 'Adventures of the Weak, Scared Bug,' which I produced in 8th grade - to my nephew, Danny. If anyone can take that crap and make it work, it's Danny.

My collection of, I don't know, a thousand CDs? - to my friend Jill, because I know she's probably the only one of you who won't just immediately throw 90% of them away, or sell them for $.49 each on eBay.

My various neon, strobe and laser lights - to my sister-in-law, Debbie, because I'm pretty sure she harbors a secret dream of creating a disco in her basement.

People! Please! I can't do this with you chanting 'Camaro, Camaro, Camaro' at me! Thank you.

My red Swingline stapler - to Carrie, because she resisted the urge to steal it for over 3 years, and that can NOT have been easy.

My book of Zombie Haiku - to my friends Trina and Jefferson. Trina gets it on odd-numbered days, and Jefferson gets it on days that end in Y.

My HP Pavilion notebook computer - to my friend Stacy, because her fiancé is an I.T. expert, which will come in very handy since the damn thing has Windows Vista on it.

My old police radio scanner - to my nephew Matthew, because let's face it - if there's anyone in the family who needs to know when the cops are coming, it's Matt. There's a smiley face here, in the margin. What's that, Matthew? Yes, well, he also wrote 'hang in there, buddy,' if that helps.

Okay, the next person who utters the word 'Camaro' is going to be removed. Seriously. Geez. I don't see what all the fuss is, anyway. I'm a Mustang man, myself.

To my sister-in-common-law-if-they-had-that-in-Maryland-but-they-don't, Angela - I leave my margarita glasses, because I don't have any martini glasses.

My tools, power and otherwise - to my nephews Patrick, Timothy and Peter. The three of you are each to select a tool. You will then be locked together in a room. The last one of you who remains standing gets all of the tools.

My 2000 Chevrolet Cavalier Z24 - to my brother-in-law, Tom, because I have every confidence that you can get another 150,000 miles out of that car.

Finally, ah - here it is. Finally, my 2011 Chevrolet Camaro convertible - to my brother-in-law, Mike, because he really likes it. Due to his height, he will only be able to comfortably drive it with the top down, but it'll still be totally worth it.

Okay, now I asked you people to be civil, so please stop swearing at me and put me down! Please! There's more! Please?

Thank you.

In conclusion, I, Joseph Userov Steroids, do hereby officially say 'PSYCHE!' All of the above mentioned stuff - everything I left behind - every last bit of it, goes to Real Joe. Duh. Who did you think would get my stuff? And if Real Joe didn't get it, wouldn't it all just go to [Maris], anyway? What's wrong with you people? Serves you right for being greedy. Good day."

Ladies and gentlemen - please calm down. Okay, Miss Collins, call 911.

Friday, July 1, 2011

A Eulogy For Steroid Joe, and A Letter From The Dead

Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. If everyone could please take a seat. Amy and Lara, please don't fight. Everyone will get a chance to spit on the casket once [Maris] and I are done.

Thank you.

Now, I know some of you were reluctant to come to this service, but I for one am glad you did. I also know that-- okay, family members, you're not going to be allowed to remain in the front row if you continue to throw things at the casket. Nice touch with the rotten eggplant, but please, just let me get through this.

Thank you.

Where was I? Yes, I also know that many of you are uncomfortable with having me, Real Joe, eulogize our departed friend and loved one, Steroid Joe. Yes Carrie, we all know he was a dick. But he was part of our lives for over four years, and we're going to be respectful. Stacy, please lower the crossbow and douse that flaming arrow. There's a bucket of water in the back of the-- what? That's manure? Really? Okay, who brought manure? MOM?? Wow. Okay. Mom brought manure to her own son's memorial service. Yes, I know he wasn't your "real" son, Mom. Settle down.

Thank you.

Now, I'm going to try to keep this brief and-- Jeff I am not fooling around - put the noose away! He's dead already. What? For dragging the corpse through the streets? No. We're not doing that. Gross. Look, everyone just sit down and give me five minutes, then you can do whatever you want to the body, okay?

Thank you. Okay, Steroid Joe died as he had lived. Fighting. It took nearly two hundred stab wounds to kill him. I know. I counted. But I think we all know that he was tormented, and that his hateful agitation with the world around him was simply a matter of chemistry, and . . . okay, I tried. He had his moments and you know it. He's gone now. Rejoice. Defile the corpse. Do whatever makes you feel better. But while you do what you gotta do, I must - in accordance with Steroid Joe's dying wish - read aloud this letter to Prednisone, his most loved and hated drug:

[pandemonium ensues]

"Dear Prednisone,
Hi. How are you? Sure is hot, here. Ha Ha Ha! Seriously, though. I'm sorry you're still in jail because of our little spat at the house. Maybe if you hadn't actually spat at the house...
Anyway... As I lay in this ditch, dying from a couple hundred stab wounds, some shrapnel and more than one boot in my butt, I have been given the gift of what I think must be clarity. Unfortunately, it's a clarity that escapes description, but I'll try to put it into words for you.
First, it hurts to have to say this, but I don't think I ever really loved you. I needed you. I used you. I was sick and I was scared. I'm sorry. I honestly thought you knew the score. You're a drug. I was a patient. It seemed pretty cut-and-dry to me, but obviously you did not see it the same way, and for that, I apologize."

[chaos and violent epithets aimed at the dead fill the chapel]

"Second, I'm sorry I burned all your stuff after the cops took you away. If it makes you feel any better, I received a citation for having an open fire not properly contained, and the fine was like fifteen hundred bucks. Ouch, right?
Finally, thank you. I will never forget what you did for me. Sure, I bitched up a storm over your side-effects, but they were nothing, NOTHING, compared to what I was facing without you. You are a complex drug. That's what I plan to say if anyone asks about you or our time together. I can't ever speak badly of you or color you as some sort of monster. You healed me. I am grateful. You must move on and heal others.

Now, you know how fond I am of Peter Murphy. I leave you with this, from his "Cascade" CD:
Hark and be well
Go catch the light in every cell
Let the fire take the fire, and the rain wash the pain
May your soul's waters never wain

Make Eden here
Send angels' prayers
May your garden be sweet
Let the fire take the fire
Let the fire take the fire, and the rain wash the pain

(Okay, I guess I loved you a little bit)

Steroid Joe