(Note from Scaramouch: As part of our final celebrations, I reached out to past and present writers and asked them all to contribute a final story. This one's is from the Dude hisself, Jeem. Enjoy)
Goddamn, this is hard. I told myself I wasn't gonna cry. I just really never thought this day would come, man. It's always in the back of your mind, of course -- the possibility of that 3 a.m. call that jolts you wide awake, or if you're already wide awake, then momentarily away from that home shopping show with the two hot chicks who sell dildos, with the unspeakable news. But you never expect it to actually happen.
No, you never expect that your smart, young, vibrant blog is going to pass on before you do. Minor stroke or heart attack, maybe -- there is a lot of bacon up in here, after all -- but shuffling off this mortal coil? At only five years old? Just a baby, ferchrissakes. Fuckin' A, man.
Sorry, no, you're right, sorry for the profanity, Father. Reverend? Father. Okay. That's the Jameson's talking. Hey, we're all dealing with this tragedy in our own ways, okay? I heard when Echowood found out, he locked himself in the bathroom with a whole case of Axe shower gel and wasn't heard from for almost a week. And that Rhesus monkey that was hired to be Johnny Wright's "luggage porter"? From what I hear, the only luggage that got handled that week was a certain "banana sack," if you know what I mean. Yeah, you know what I mean, Father. But hey, whatever, man. We've all got our luggage to port around, one way or another, right? Who am I to judge?
Anyway. I know I haven't always been there for you, YesButNoButYes. And I guess after a while I took you for granted, thinking you'd always just be there for me. Scaramouch, Miss Cellania, Baierman, Echo and Johnny have done most of the hard work around here, sitting up with you for the late-night crying jags, the skinned knees, your first genital wart, while I've just been content to swoop in every few weeks and enjoy the good times -- holidays, Bar Mitzvahs, slutty nurses -- or else just unload on you when I really should've been listening for your cries for help.
I guess I just wanted so badly to be the cool guy, plying you with cigarettes, designer drugs and dirty movies, or else just trying to flat-out buy your affections with fancy toys, when what you really needed was the daily discipline and structure that I was unable to provide for you. (Sorry, unwilling, not unable -- my court-ordered therapist says I need to start working with the flash cards and using more "Response-Ability Words.")
Sure, once in a while I'd try to do the responsible thing and school you on the ways of the world, like politics or economics or fine art, but I guess in the end, that just wasn't my bag, man. I'm not a teacher, I'm a lone wolf, and that just can't be taught. Except maybe by a teacher who then gets bitten by a werewolf, but even then, there's no way you're getting him into a classroom full of kids. But I digress. (Jameson's.)
We were supposed to work on the motorcycle together over Spring Break, but I bailed for Mexico, and I'm sorry for that, too. I hope you at least got all those U.S. Savings Bonds and Tijuana Bibles I sent you, YesButNoButYes, but I have a feeling your Mom probably traded 'em in for blow already. Bitch. (Sorry, Cuervo Gold talking that time.) Really, though, baby, that black dress looks great on you. Can I give you a ride home after the cemetery? Sorry, sorry, inappropriate. Don't worry, I'm almost done here, Reverend. Father, sorry. Hey, don't people usually bring casseroles to these things? I think I could use...oh, that's after, gotcha.
Anyway, I just want you to know that I'm gonna miss you, YesButNoButYes, even if I haven't always been around enough to show you how much I care. And if, in His infinite wisdom, the good Lord sees fit to some day bless me with another blog, I'm gonna do your memory proud, buddy. But in the mean time, once I get my truck out of impound, I'm gonna put this sweet-ass giant decal in the rear window that says "YesButNoButYes: 2005 - 2010, Kickin' Ass & Fryin' Bacon in Heaven," with all these killer demon-angels with big tits around the edge. It's gonna be sick.
And well, if these lowly words from the thesaurus of my heart haven't done a great, consummate, or exceptional job of expressing how I feel, then I hope the awesome power of the Brothers Van Zant will blast all the way up through those Pearly Gates and rock you right off your cloud.
This one's for you, little man.
(Yeah, I know "Cat's in the Cradle" probably would've made more sense in this context, but my therapist said it might trigger another episode, and wouldn't sign my court papers otherwise. Peace out!)