Monday, August 25, 2008

The Story Of My Death

I once went to school with a guy and a girl who called everything brutal. One day they called biology class brutal, and I said to myself; you know what would be brutal for you? Mirror class. Subsequently, I dropped out of high school. 
In high school, I never was popular or unpopular,  I just was quiet. I wish now that everyone could have heard gems like mirror class, I probably would have been voted most best and non-brutal. In grade seven, the girls would vote for the cutest boys in class, then announce their findings when the teacher left the classroom. I finished second and third a couple of times. This has become a recurring theme in my life, as I have chosen to align myself only with people who are better than me in an attempt to steal all their best moves. My plan is to become the Wes Anderson of humans, taking all the best shots from all the best movies to create something that a lot of assholes will try to dress like.  Remember when everyone bought red toques after The Life Aquatic? I was gonna get one, but I couldn't find the right shade of shit head. My ultimate plan will be to befriend Jack Nicholson, so I can still look really cool when my hairline recedes. 
Once I am an eclectic mess of other people's most endearing traits, I will partake in credit card fraud and live in Edinburgh under the alias Powder Williams. I will rise to fame as a dj and  travel Eastern Europe playing electronic remixes of Anne Murray songs. All will come to a halt when I am gunned down in Zagreb for publicly humiliating the Croatian national handball team. Ivano Balic* will condemn the assasination and perform an acapella version of Float On at my funeral, but it will be too late, the children will cry.  

*Ivano Balic is arguably the greatest handball player in the world, hailing from Croatia. 
Source: an encyclopedia which may or my not be Wikipedia.

1 comment:

Sugarduk said...

I believe Powder Williams actually escaped his death at the hands of the handball team. It is said he holes up in a cave in outer Zagreb endlessly scratching Snowbird and writing odes to Ken Kesey and Bill Burroughs. He comes into town once a week to buy a pound of loose darjeeling tea. Having shed his amalgam of borrowed traits he now teaches Mirror 101 to the brave souls who dare to sign up.