Future Obituaries

Harvey Burns [ 1994 - 2017 ]

2006-11-06T07:16:00.000+02:00

*Note for the Editor: The following was written about two years ago and was meant to emulate the early works of the author Hunter S. Thompson. It was, however, deemed to be too blatantly derivative of the aforementioned author to post. Since then things have changed. . . namely that bastard Thompson's finally offed himself, and now the piece can be published as a loving tribute to that filthy animal.

A memo from the sports desk :

Harvey Burns, number sixteen, quarterback, Arizona State Sun Devils . . . . I first befriended Harvey while covering the college football beat for a local Phoenix paper, The Almost Daily Chronicle, which came out five times a week. The only thing we had in common was a taste for strong drink. But this, as it so often is, was enough. Whenever we met, a whisky bottle was invariably involved . . . And it was over one such bottle that we hatched a plan to travel to the Sonoran desert, where we would consume copious amounts of acid. Our whisky strangled brain's fully believing that, in doing so, we would somehow manage to gain second sight.

While the memories of that crazed weekend are hazy at best, I'm nearly certain it all started with a conversion about ancient prophets. Back then they fasted for their visions, but we were sure that we didn't have the patience for that kind of trip. So we decided that LSD would fuel our encounter with the creator. I don't recall anything past our decision to embark on what amounted to a vision quest of sorts, except the strange feeling that somehow, someone had stolen my bananas. Looking back I'm not really sure if I even brought any bananas with me. I had planned to take notes during the entire endeavor, but the following Monday I discovered that only one page had survived the weekend The page was nestled away safely in my typewriter, and read as follows:

Interview with the Sun of the Devil, Harvey Burns-

Q: Why are we here?

A: Saguaro cacti are aesthetically pleasing.

Q: How long before the Gila monsters come for our souls?

A: Can't be much longer. . . . this is their god damned desert after all.

Q: How can your Sun Devils possibly hope to defeat the LSU tigers in New Orleans, where their voodoo is strongest?

A: Simple. I've figured it out. All of it, really.

Q: Figured what out?

That's it, for what ever reason I stopped typing at that point. Six months later I can only speculate as to what exactly Harvey figured out during that strange trip. Perhaps he had some profound revelation about life, or maybe he figured out how to distinguish between man and cover two? What ever it was, his completion percentage went up twenty four points the following year. Arizona State still lost to LSU that season though, good voodoo is a tough thing to combat. The defeat effectively ended the Sun Devil's title hopes for the 2017 season. Harvey blamed himself for the loss and spent the rest of his life in a dark depression. That life was cut short approximately twelve hours after the final whistle when Burns died while attempting to urinate on an electric fence despite lyrical warnings of its danger. Harvey Burns, 1994 - 2017, great quarterback, decent bowler, terrific guy.

2005-09-28T23:11:00.000+03:00

Ronald J. Hauss [ July 13, 2206 - July 6, 2226 ]

Ronald J. Hauss lived the life of a wholly insignificant human being, and would have been recorded as such in History, had he not destroyed it. For, as it turns out, he destroyed human History along with the rest of the solar system when he blew up the Sun.

It all started one morning when Hauss rolled out of bed and decided to make pancakes. His alarm clock read 4:00 p.m., but he could have sworn it was Sunday. When he got to his kitchen and realized he had none of the ingredients necessary to make pancakes, he decided to simply destroy the Sun instead. After all, it was something he'd always wanted to do. If only he had a ship with strong enough heat shields that he might crash it into the sun. Since no such ship existed, he did the only logical thing and prayed for one. Five minutes later his pancakes were done and he was growing restless. Could God not hear his prayer? And just as Hauss contemplated this last part, God almighty appeared before him in a convenient and predictable plot twist. Taking the form of George Burns, God explained to Hauss that yes, he could hear well enough, and had come to answer his prayer.

With him God brought the ship that Hauss would need to ensure the solar system met with a proper end. To really pull off the plan with some style though, God asserted, Hauss would need a copilot. Furthermore it was essential that, for reasons far beyond the limitations of human conception, this copilot be Dennis Hopper... straight from the set of the 1969 film "Easy Rider." Hauss agreed and in the blink of an eye found himself sitting next to Hopper, strapped into the driver's seat of a rocket with its controls set for the heart of the sun.

God recorded their conversation, for his records-

Hauss: So, ummm, can I call you Billy?

Dennis Hopper: No.

Hauss: Oh, ok then...

Dennis Hopper [now in character]: Ah, just kidding man! You can call me Billy, or Tonto, or whatever the fuck you like man.

Hauss: Even Phillis?

Dennis Hopper: No man, not Phillis.

Hauss: Ok, Billy it is.

Dennis Hopper: Right... Now, what I want to know dude, is how come you seem to know about the movie I'm working on when we have a closed set?

Hauss: Well, it's very simple really. I'm from the year 2226, and the other day while making breakfast I decided to blow up the sun. The next thing I knew God showed up with the keys to a brand-new space ship, and handed them to me on the condition I take you along for the ride.

Dennis Hopper: Oh, I see. This makes perfect sense.

Hauss: Really?

Dennis Hopper: Yes... someone clearly dosed my coffee this morning. Must have been premo-shit too... this is quite a fucking trip man.

Hauss: Well, sadly this is no LSD-induced hallucination. It's all really happening...

Dennis Hopper: What ever you say man... but just what exactly is that thing coming up fast in front of us?

Hauss: Why, its our end... everybody's end... everything's end... the end.

A final note from God: Believe it or not, but the solar system didn't go out with a bang... it was more of a 'ker-pow!'

Pope Benedict XVI [ April 16, 1927 - May 20th, 2016 ]

2005-04-20T07:51:00.000+03:00

A letter from the future :

The first time I met Jules Wickley he was slinking around a small trading port in East Cambodia, posing as a merchant from the far east. He was indeed a merchant of sorts, although he mostly just sold bad junk to sailors. There was no getting around the fact that Jules was an evil man. His fiercely sharp features seemed to tip off even poor appraisers of character to this. There was always a strange distantness in his eyes, and outside of talking business he would say very little of substance . . . That is until around his ninth beer.

We were sitting by ourselves in a booth in a local establishment known as the "Red Barrel," when he told me a story about the four Shamans he tried to sell his soul to. The first three were all he fakes he insisted, and they each paid him handsomely in valuable black gold, that is good old fashioned Turkish poppy juice. Souls are considered very powerful entities by the ports indigenous peoples. Jules continued his story, explaining that the fourth Shaman he attempted this scam on was in fact a man of great vision and instantly saw through it. The Shaman laughed at Jules sales pitch. He found such greed genuinely amusing. The fourth Shaman's actions were apparently a mystery to Jules, but having spent nearly the entirety of an evening in Wickley's company, I fully understood them. The Shaman had seen what was now clear to me . . . That Jules Wickley was a man with no soul.

I intentionally lost track of the bastard for years until his name turned up while I was doing research for a potentially huge story. You see what I was slowly uncovering were details of a secret international tank drag racing complex located in the heart of the Gaza strip. The facilities were used for top-secret pissing competitions between rival nations. For instance, it is possible to actually trace the momentum shift in the cold war that led to the eventual collapse of the Soviet Union to the development of the Abram's twin turbo DE-17. That US Tank beat the Soviets older Veroblaster model by more then five tenths of a second in a 1988 race. At that time it was immediately clear to all present who the true Super Power was.

Anyway, my sources tell me that last January a Dutch Tank, the Tolxer mark four, set a new world tank speed record at 186 miles an hour. Members of the US intelligence community were shaken; how could they contend with these maverick Dutch? This is where Jules comes in. You see, in South Africa he had come upon plans for a new higher-output type of jet engine. He bartered several very dangerous and exotic drugs for the plans, and quickly applied for a patent. It was then that members of the CIA came upon plans for the engine, which they believed could be used on a tank. Thinking he was the engine's inventor, the US government granted him the title of Colonel and put him on a military pension [four of them to be exact], all in exchange for his expertise. But Jules would only collect two months worth of payments from those pensions before his demise. An Unidentified "terrorist" [a term often used to distract attention from covert operations related to the existence of the Gaza racing strip] drove a van full of explosives into a building in down town Gaza that was housing the US's brand new Jet-Tank. The blast destroyed everything, including a one Colonel Jules Wickley, who was sleeping soundly in his second floor office at the time.

The death of such a truly evil man does not happen often, and it left the Universe with severely unbalanced karma. Order was quickly restored however, as a truly good man, Pope Benedict XVI, died three hours later of pneumonia after an eleven-year pontificate.

Brian Posehn [ July 6, 1966 - July 6, 2226 ]

2005-04-06T10:17:00.000+03:00

Brian Posehn, perhaps best known for his credit as "Additional Voice" in Disney's feature length animated classic "Brother Bear," awoke on an empty beach located in the outskirts of Los Angeles. Disheveled, he splashed water on his trade mark scrubby face then began to pray. Suddenly the world around him fell silent, and then mere seconds later in a rather overly grand entrance complete with gongs, Death incarnate appeared. "Wait a moment," Posehn pleads, but Death is quick in his reply "You all say that, but I give no respite." Brian is on the spot now, he has to think at an excruciatingly fast pace as his time on Earth is rapidly winding down...

And then he had it, in a stroke of pure genius that was perhaps attributable to the fact he had seen a certain movie about a bogus journey fourteen times, he had found his reply. "You play chess, do you not?" Death was caught off guard, as Posehn continued, "I have seen it in paintings." Death conceded that he did in fact play, and proceded to produce a board from under his cloak. The rules were simple: To the winner went Brian's life. Posehn then shuffled a pawn of each color behind his back and Death, rather appropriately, choose the hand containing the black pawn. With his mortal soul on the line, Brian would go first.

He advanced his queen-side bishop's pawn two spaces to initiate the English opening. Death responded quickly by advancing his king pawn two spaces, playing a reverse Sicilian defense. Brian is fucked. He knows it, and he knows it because he has no idea what the English opening is, let alone the reverse Sicilian defense. A mere thirteen moves later it is evident that Death is in control, as he wins a rook and crushes Poshn's defenses. But wait, the Dark One acted with too much hast, a miscalculation, perhaps born of arrogance. Regardless, staring Brian Posehn in the face was a blatant loophole, a way out... a move that would force a stalemate. Bishop to D-5, check.

Stunned, Death acknowledged the draw and consulted his handy pocket manual for what to do next. Brian would never forget the last thing Death said to him: "Well, uh... You're technically immortal now." A fairly crappy last line, Posehn would later claim that "Keep on rocking in the free world," was in fact the final thing Death said before he descended "on a dark stagecoach." But most folks just don"t believe old Brian's crazy tales.

Despite his immortality, Posehn eventually does cease to be on his 260th birthday when the sun unexpectedly blows up and takes out the entire solar system. As it turns out, God likes to answer one prayer a week as a mater of principle. He selects this prayer randomly, and grants it no matter what the outcome may be. Well on the day in question one Ronald J. Hauss was fed up with the world and more then anything else bored. He had no sympathy for the devil and wanted to go out with a bang. He got his wish.

A final note from the Author

Please insert this quote at the beginning or end of Posehn piece - Sven.

"And when the lamb had opened
The seventh seal...
There was silence in heaven about
the space of half an hour
And the seven Angels which
had the Seven Trumpets...
Prepared themselves to sound."

James Zeppler (May 17th, 1980- August 3rd, 2009)

2005-03-30T08:19:00.000+03:00

James Zeppler had just hit a magnificent par 5 eagle on the 13th hole of Tall Pines Golf Club in the small town of Sandusky, Ohio when his golfing partner and longtime business rival, Charles O'Handley, shot him in the head with the 12 gauge shotgun he had been stowing in his bag. The green, which had been finely trimmed and quite pristine just a few seconds prior, was suddenly ruined just as Mr. Zeppler's climactic life was ended in quite a large decrescendo.

Now while the demise of the green was certainly something to be mourned, and while the questions behind why Mr. O'Handley didn't get prosecuted for property damage go unanswered, these controversial issues just aren't the focus of this story.

James Zeppler was born into a poverty stricken town in northern Kentucky. His mother, a crack whore, sold young James to a Michigan based fisherman named Heinz Laughler, who's main port was in Lake Superior. The fisherman raised James like he was his own son and taught him the ways of the hook and sinker. When James turned 18, Mr. Laughler bought his adopted son a boat, which he named The Zepplin. The two made quite a name for themselves among the fishermen of the lake as the years went on, and eventually established a very successful fishing business with about two dozen ships.

In 1999, Mr. Laughler died tragically when a Wide Mouth Bass jumped out of the water and stole his favorite hat, causing him to jump into the water after it, never to return again. Mr. Zeppler was left to manage the business. However, he soon ran into quite a bit of competition from other local fishing companies. Things got heated in September of 2003 when a ship from Mr. Fish Co., which was headed by Charles O'Handley and was Zeppler Co.'s biggest rival, sunk one of Zeppler's 23 foot Grady White fishing boats with a hand launched, remote operated, tacticle torpedo. Mr. Zeppler, unexperienced with such devastatingly violent tactics, was left fearing for his life. Lacking enough evidence to bring legal action against Mr. Fish Co, He decided to run away to Ohio for a month, where he learned how to play golf.

Charley O'Handley didn't appreciate some previously unknown fishing company moving in on his business, and he wasn't about to just stand idly by while Mr. Zeppler gained an edge. As it turned out, he had called up his cousin Vinny a few months prior and asked for advice. Incidentally, although claiming to most of his extended family that he was a legitimate business man, Vinny was actually a made mafia hitman working out of Chicago. Mr. O'Handley had absolutely no idea of this, and assumed he was receiving some sound business advice from another respectable business man.

When Mr. Zeppler returned from his trip, on which he became a fairly proficient golfer due to his training with world pro, Sergio Garcia, he initiated new aggressive business strategys to match Mr. O'Handley's devastating tactics. He sent some of his scalliwag crew over to the local piers and had them pay "fishing spot protection money." This plan was enormously successful and his profits skyrocketed. Some of Mr. O'Handley's best 25 foot Boston Whaler's were sunk in a mysterious "accident" in the middle of the lake. While, Mr. Zeppler is rumored to be responsible for their demise, his company spokesman refused to comment on the matter.

It was around this time, the point where Mr. Zeppler truly seemed to be getting an edge in the Lake Superior fishing business, that Mr. O'Handley invited him to settle their differences peacefully over a game of golf at his private course in Sandusky, Ohio. The stipulations were to be that if Mr. Zeppler won, Mr. Fish Co. would be taken under the wing of Mr. Zeppler's company and vice versa if Mr. O'Handley won. However, this clearly wasn't the case, and Mr. Zeppler's life was ended tragically early at the ripe age of 29. His lifeless body, and his ship, were sunk in the middle of Lake Superior, and are now, like his mentor, swimming with the fishes.

On a side note, Mr. O'Handley's greens keeper was not happy with the situation at all, seeing as a red green is pretty much an oxymoron. So, he poisoned Mr. O'Handley at the banquet celebrating Mr. Fish's merger with Mr. Zeppler's former company. So is the sick world of fishing... and golf.

Irina Welsh [ April 22, 1981 - February 23, 2008 ]

2005-02-23T09:42:00.000+02:00

Irina Welsh was born with a gift, and like any good American she was determined to exploit it. Her gift was that of foresight, and her visions of the future were dominated by one indelible image: Automated toilets. She quickly developed a passion for personal plumbing (that is, the plumbing of ones person) as well as ceramics. At the age of twenty-three she set out to design and build the worlds first "Smart-John." After several months of agonizing labor, and one of agonizing tanning in San Juan, she found the notebook that contained her blueprints and started production on her first model. The first Smart-John, dubbed "Phillis," utilizied an altered version of the Rebel-Tiger chess engine for its artificial intelligence chip. Phillis became the first inanimate object ever to adorn the covers of both "Discover" and "Better Homes and Gardens" [Steven Hawking and Ella Fitzgerald are the only humans to accomplish this feat]. Quick to cash in on her success, Welsh sold the prototype to GE who in turn produced and sold more then 100 thousand Smart-Johns within a year.

The one year anniversary of the birth of Phillis was about the time the complaint letters started pouring in. The following is from one such letter:

Dearest Irina,
You have created a monster in the guise of progressive sanitation. No where in your manual does it warn that the Stupid-John has its own will, let alone one that cannot be bent to the whims of any man. Just the other day it refused to open because I had been a little sloppy while urinating the night before. But it's not happy merely controlling its own destiny, no. It wants to control you. Somehow the Smart-John could sense when it was needed, and would always power it self up and turn on the bathroom light just as I would start in its direction. Eventually it got to the point that it would turn it self on when I didn't need to go, and the dull distinctive chirp it gave off upon start up would set my bowels in an uproar. It was a fierce mistress, but not immune to a home made pipe bomb! No amount of money could make up for the damage that vicious beast caused my psyche, as well as my kidneys, but 186 thousand dollars would buy me a really cool boat. So, if you don't wire the money to my account [information attached] by February 23, I will kill you [picture of the gun attached].

Love,
Your killer, Robert Giraffen

Unfortunately for Irina, Robert did not apply proper postage to the letter and it was never delivered. Irina Welsh was gunned down by an unknown assailant outside of her apartment on February 23, 2008. Her legacy lived on though, and was cemented on January 18, 2012 when the Smart-John GE12X defeated Samuel L. Jackson in a regulation chess match.

Richard M Nixon (January 9th 1913- April 22nd 1994, February 13th 2005- February 20th 2005)

2005-02-02T22:40:00.000+02:00

And so, with no excuses, we're back

John Wilkes Booth (no relation) is a man with an unnatural obsession with the late President Richard Nixon. His entire home was littered with clippings from Watergate, and the 68 and 72 election. He had every biography written about him and had even attempted to write one himself (this never panned out however, as Booth was an extraordinarily poor writer). Booth's attempt at building a homemade time machine at the age of 25 were unsuccessful as he didn't quite have the necessary knowledge of the time space continuum to be tampering with such high powered science. Has originally planned to go back in time to prevent the Watergate scandal from ever happening, but his real goal was just to shake Nixon's hand. Booth did, however, earn a Doctorate in the biological sciences and, by the time he was 30, had a very high paying job and an impressive grant for experimenting with revitalizing dead cells at specialized lab in South Dakota.
Booth appeased his superiors with his groundbreaking work, while he was secretly using it to complete his unimaginably heinous plot. Booth's work far exceeded reviving just simple cells. No, Booth had developed a technology so advanced that it could revive perhaps the most complicated being in all of history, a U.S. president. A complicated series of scientific jargon would be necessary for a complete understanding of how this almost magical seeming discovery worked. However, when all was said and done, Booth had a vial of what he coined, "Commander Chief Sauce."
So, in a strange fit of ecstasy, he grabbed his finished product and went to the grave of the very late president Grant. He took with him, a bottle of 101 proof Wild Turkey whiskey and a shotgun. When he arrived at the grave and poured a drop of the serum onto it, nothing happened... at first. Suddenly a bloody and fleshy hand stuck up from the ground and into it Booth stuck the whiskey. Like Popeye the sailor man and his spinach, the old general popped out of the ground with a belligerent vigor upon consumption. In full battle regalia, it soon became clear to Booth that Grant intended to stick him through with his 200 year old, ceremonial bayonet. Overjoyed at the effectiveness of his creation, he pumped 3 shotgun rounds into Grant's newly reformed skull and set out for the grave of his boyhood hero, Richard Nixon.
He booked a flight to Los Angeles, where the all the members of the Richard Nixon Fan Club greeted him at the gate. Booth, being the president of the club, made a call to rent a coach bus and they were soon off to Yorba Linda, CA. Once at the gravesite, all of club members gathered around Nixon's grave and began chanting the goals of his 1972 election platform while holding peace signs up into the air. Almost passing out from his excitement, Booth hesitantly made his way forward and poured his magical elixir upon the earth. They all just stood there for a second watching, and suddenly a bloody hand, reminiscent of Grant's, shot up from the ground. The entire club bowed down before the hand and soon Nixon was able to completely free himself from the ground and let out a mighty roar. He charged at the club members and proceeded to devour each and every one of their skulls. Lastly he made his way towards Booth who wasn't able to tell that he had made his lifelong hero into an undead zombie. Booth just feel to his knees, stunned, and did nothing to prevent the onslaught of attack from the former U.S. president.
The body formerly known as Richard Nixon wasn't seen for a few days after that, until he showed up at a truck stop in the town of Barstow, Nevada, where the manager, Henry Lyndon Johnson, was very excited to see a former president in his humble establishment. Not being a man of the world enough to know that Nixon had been dead for 10 years and unable to tell any differences in his features from what he'd seen in pictures, he turned to make Mr. Nixon a complimentary cup of coffee and had his heart ripped out through his back and swallowed and the coffee made it's way to the floor. Police found the bloody mess of Johnson without his heart about 3 days later and immediately set out in search of "the maniac in the desert."
Nixon's next and last time seen on this earth was in Owl Creek, Colorado where he was seen stumbling into the compound of Hunter S. Thompson, when the famous author happened to be shooting things in his yard. One look was all he needed before he let loose a flurry of bullets from his .44 magnum while screaming, "Go back to hell you evil swine!" Afterwards, the eccentric journalist calmly and carefully tied the body up to a wooden pillar, doused it in gasoline, lit it ablaze and smoked his cigarette while throwing back a beer.

Svenic Interlude

2004-12-20T02:40:00.000+02:00

Future Obituaries will not be updated till January 5th. I'd apologize for any inconvenience, but I really don't care about your damn feelings. I plan on enjoying a very merry Finlandish Christmas.

-Sven

Bob Dylan [ May 24th, 1941 - December 1st, 2012 ]

2004-12-01T06:42:00.000+02:00

Lyonel Howard was a forty six year-old unemployed loser. Not having had a substantial source of income for the better part of a decade, he didn't even qualify for the title out of work. He would have been homeless too, had it not been for the fact that his father, due to his deep-rooted hatred of the human species, decided to bestow his great fortune upon Lyonel's dog, Highway 61 Revisited. As Highway 61 Revisited's name suggests, Lyonel was both a bob Dylan fan and absolutely insane. However, due to the large sum of money he sort of had control over, Lyonel was merely considered an eccentric by the materialistic society he inhabited.

One day Lyonel overheard some people on the subway talking about how someone had died on the toilet. "Just like Elvis!" One said laughing. It was then that Lyonel realized that your death is in fact the single most important part of your life. Here were two people laughing at Elvis Presley, the fucking king of rock and roll, all because he happened to have died in a rather embarrassing position. While not as celebrated, it's the same situation for Jim Morrison, who died while sitting at a child's birthday party. Thurman Munson is still remembered as a hero in New York, despite committing a horrendous 45 errors in two seasons from 1974 to 1975. All because his life was taken prematurely in a plane crash. Fate can be a fierce and fickle mistress.

And then it hit him. Bob Dylan was 71 years old. He was bound to drop dead at any moment. What if he died at the movies or something? Junior Mints in his pocket. Everyone would remember him as a feeble old man that drank diet coke. It was then that Lyonel Howard swore Bob Dylan could not, and would not be laughed at by people on the subway, especially ones that put mustard on their hot pretzels. No, old Bob was going to die in a manner befitting a musical visionary. He was going to be eaten by a cougar. For truly Neil Young was correct in asserting "it's better to burn out than to fade away."

The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan was watering some plants in his back yard when Lyonel opened the cage door. Having gotten his scent off of a tattered scarf, the Cougar charged at Dylan. Then, to Lyonel's horror, his hero pulled a buck knife out of his boot and proceeded to carve up Flap Jacks, the cougar Lyonel had stolen from the circus. Dismayed by the bloody site in front of him, Lyonel Howard proceeded to take a revolver out of his back pocket and fire three shots at the folk rock icon, killing him. Having been very thorough in his planning, and having already thought out such a situation, he quickly wiped his fingerprints off the gun and placed it in the dead cougars outstretched paw.

In the end Lyonel Howard got his wish. Bob Dylan did not fade away, and die of some natural, embarrassing cause. In fact his death at the hand of a "mysterious psychotic," as the New York Times would report, did nothing but add to his legacy. Assuring no one would ever forget the 20th century's greatest song writer. However, only one major newspaper, "Quah News! ," a "progressive" paper based in downtown LA, actually printed that Bob Dylan had been fatally shot by a Cougar that had escaped from a traveling circus. This was most likely because they where the only paper in existence at the time that was unaware of the fact that Cougars lack the digits necessary to operate firearms.

Mr. T (May 21, 1952- November 10, 2004)

2004-11-18T05:35:00.000+02:00

Hello Gang, it's your ever humble eyes and ears of information regarding the relatively soon to be deceased. I took a two week vacation to Russia (which explains the lack of updates, seriously). But now I'm back and as you are about to find out the news I bring from Russia (with love) is well worth your wait.

An American icon has been lost this month. He's been an idol for many young males across the world and has been called one of the most influential men in American history. I could only possibly be speaking of the beloved Mr. T. It will be quite a marketing wonder if someone doesn't capitalize upon his now immortal status by releasing "The A-Team" episodes onto DVD. Regardless of this, the passing of this great American must be told. He had been visiting Russia as well for the week leading up to his death. He was there to promote his newest book "Life in the Fast Lane with Mr. T." He had no idea how fast that lane actually was. The book, a compilation of a few of his "most extreme life experiences" put to print and guided by Mr. T's boundless wisdom, was released a few months prior and it's sales were failing miserably in America. However, the people of Russia seemed to think differently and the book was sitting comfortably as their number 2 best seller, only falling behind in sales to "Kraftwerk, an autobiography." Hoping to push himself to the #1 spot, he set up a promotional tour of Russia, planning to visit over 15 cities in a one month period. He was only able to make it as far as the capital before his very life came to a screeching halt. While at a national banquet sponsored by President Vladimir Putin himself, Mr. T was made the guest of honor and given a seat next to the president for the evening. Russia, as we all know, has been experiencing an incredible increase in the amount of vicious terrorism. Russian police were doing all they could to help stop any possible attempt to dislodge the comfortable atmosphere of the banquet. Yet there efforts weren't nearly enough. Ackmed Rhaman, a man from the disputed territory of Chechnia, had been invited to the banquet for his nationally renowned work on improving the efficiency of fusion reactors. No one suspected this highly scientific man of having any type of political agenda. However Mr. Rhaman did have an adenda. One he made perfectly clear when his first shot from a balcony overlooking the banquet hall hit President Putin's bowl of tomato soup, causing the president to scream in pain as the scaldingly hot tomato liquid leaped up and burned his face. Mr. Rhaman had time to unload one more shot before he was shot dead by several Russian Officers. From Putin's point of view the second shot was much less harmful, as it struck Mr. T right between the eyeballs. Sceams and panic engulfed the banquet hall and both President Bush and Putin where said to privately declare November 11th to be Mr. T Day. America and Russia will no doubt be in mourning for quite some time. It will take the full strength of the entire country to recover from this brutal blow. In closing, I leave you with a heartfelt quote from our departed hero: "Any man who don't love his momma can't be no friend of mine!"

Saxon Hanwacker, A man afraid to admit he likes Star Wars (March 14, 1985- December 1, 2017)

2004-10-27T06:10:00.000+03:00

Saxon Hanwacker was a quiet boy who kept mostly to himself. A tragic freak accident took this man's life at the ripe age of 32. It all began on November 30th. While peacefully sitting on a park bench reading his favorite magazine, "Closet Star Wars Fans Anonymous" an ice cream truck stopped to give Popsicles to the children. Upon seeing a pretty lady and her daughter approaching he quickly hid his magazine incase she decided to ask him what he'd been reading. After a short conversation with the woman, her and her child left saxon's life forever and once again, being a hopeless romantic, he is crushed. Walking home to his one-room apartment in the Bronx, Saxon halfheartedly decided to commit suicide. Unfortunately, he had no real idea about how to do it. Not owning a gun and loving his precious knife collection too much to use one, he was stumped. Upon hours of searching online, he came up with only one satisfying result; suffocating himself with the exhaust from a car was the only logical way to go about it. The next day he went to the local Home Depot and bought a nice length of rubber hose. Being that he didn't own a car, he had to break into one. Luckily, he found an unlocked car with the keys in it. Finally, everything was ready and he turned the key. Just as he became drowsy he changed his mind and decided to start a new life and turned the car off. He was tired of being a New York Times custodian, so he decided to return to his true calling, mechanics. But just as he was about to get out of the car, the owner, a local drug dealer named, Jason Varitek came up to the car and shot him in the face for trying to "swipe" his car. Varitek, just another Red Sox failure, was later quoted as saying, "Well, if he was planning on killing himself anyway, why should I have to be criminally charged?" The charges on Varitek where dropped were later dropped. Saxon won't be remembered for much. He went to Purchase College and graduated as a Music Composition major and he had few friends. What Saxon will be most remebered for is the times he spent torturing his roommates girlfriend and being caught wacking off to porn by his roommate dan. Living with him meant bringing clean to a whole new level and omitting nearly all television from your life. Back in Swaglesworth, Saxon was a hometown hero! He brought home two crossword puzzle championships for his H.S. word-letes team. Though there are many other boring details to Saxon's life, no one really wants to hear about it. I'll leave you off with two famous Hanwacker quote, "Well, I wasn't really mackin' it" and "star wars is great just not around the ladies dan."

Paul McCartney [June 18, 1942 - October 20, 2009]

2004-10-20T23:17:00.000+03:00

In the spring of 2009 Ringo Star is informed by his doctor that he has a fatal case of Entitelitis. Over the next several months his public appearances continue to dwindle until early August, when they stop altogether. By this time the odd's makers in Las Vegas had already suspected for several weeks that Ringo was sick, despite his record labels claim he was working on material. So when in early September an unconfirmed source leaked to the press that Ringo was fatally ill, they acted quickly in altering the betting line. On October 2nd the Las Vegas betting line had even money on the last surviving beatle being either Ringo Starr or Paul McCartney. On October 3rd it had Paul McCartney being the last surviving beatle by ten to one odds. This sudden shift went unnoticed by almost all of the mainstream gamblers in America. While betting on death came into fashion for a brief period during the late 70's, in the 2000's it was considered amoral by most people in the betting community.

Roger Lowquid was an amoral person, who liked to think of himself as a professional gambler. This, despite the fact that he worked for the post office. Betting on peoples lives gave him a sense of power, and that in turn gave him an erection. And so it followed that the quality and duration of these erections were directly proportional to the amount he bet. However he found that the more he used this technique, the less it worked. By the time he read the October 3rd betting line on the last surviving beatle, he had gone three months without arousal. It has been said that going without food for three meals is enough to drive a group of people to revolt, well going without an orgasm for three months was more then enough to drive Roger Lowquid to measures akin to revolution in their extremity.

October 10th, Paul McCartney is found dead at this home. After a brief investigation it was determined that the cause of death was anthrax poisoning from a chain letter the late singer had opened. The letter had originally been addressed to the U.S. House of Representatives, but through a mysterious sorting error had been delivered to McCartney's estate.

It's bad luck to throw away chain letters.

General Griffin, A great general with really bad luck (February 14, 1971- August 3, 2017)

2004-10-20T05:24:00.000+03:00

General Griffin was a 3 star general that disappeared from the military during the Rhode Island civil war in 2005. He set up a secretive underground base in El Salvador where he built up a military regime funded by his control of an underground movement of sponges. When the time came for Griffin to make his move for domination of Central America, he was hit with a severe case of unstoppable hiccups. He tried everything he could to get rid of them. He drank gallons of water. He tried to hold his breath. He even rented "How Stella Got Her Groove Back" in his effor to scare it out of himself. In the end, Griffin had to take a leave of absence from his command. Griffin checked himself into the C.U.N.T center (Clinic for Unusual and Nutty Treatment center) He put his second-in-command in charge of his military. The man that Griffin put in charge would end up ruling the world, and that man is Joseph C Chirachella. Griffin ordered Chirachella to make no attacks, fortify his location and tighten the control of his surveillance. Joe went against his orders and conquered Central America. In three months, he went on to conquer the world with his incredible persuasion and military skill. When word got to Griffin that Chirachella was moving across South America taking countries one by one. He demanded that Chirachella step down from his command. Chirachella responded by destroying the C.U.N.T center with a tomahawk missile donated by Joe's proud, supporting U.S. army. Griffin's hiccups suddenly ceased but so did his life.

Svenic Interlude

2004-10-17T21:06:00.000+03:00

Aloha Gang,

It's your humble site admistrator Sven here. First off, I'd like to apologize personally for the missing the deadline last Wednesday. There were technical difficulties involving a copy machine and a midget (all very common, day to day issues over here in good old Finland). So, as a very special repayment for lost entertainment, next Wednesdays update will feature 2, count em, 2 new future obituaries. So, in the meantime, please enjoy this cute picture of rabbit...'s brain.

Mahalo,
Sven

Nicholas Ducher (August 17th, 1985 - February 19th, 2005)

2004-10-07T06:06:00.001+03:00

Nicholas Ducher has always been known to his family and friends as a very exhuberant fellow. Never fearing to speak what's on his mind, he hasn't always been everyone's favorite person. However, to the many who have come to know him, he is quite the exceptional human being. He was born in France in 1985 and grew up in the town of Lyon. After 6 years of living there, he moved to Paris where he had a brief encounter with a Jesus like fellow who taught him the true meaning of Christmas. Not quite a religious child, this encounter had little or no effect on young Nicholas. After a stint of living in Morroco from 1996-2000 his family moved to America, where he attended a French high school and upon graduating, was accepted to The University of New York at Stony Brook. Little did Nicholas know, his life was about to take a swift turn. He moved in, and met his new roomate, Jon. Jon and Nick didn't quite get along too well during their first semester together. They squabbled over many stupid issues frequently. However, despite their dislike for eachother, they had one similar love. When Jon first moved in, he brought a curious machine, one that the Frenchman was unfamiliar with because he was simply not American. The devise, known as the Gamecube, bound Nick to a most horrifying fate. They shared their similar interest in a game for the Gamecube known as Super Smash Brothers Melee, and through the game, a rivalry grew, and from that rivalry sprouted a friendship. Yes, Jon and Nick played their game every day, each day they grew more and more powerful in their abilities. However, their was one day when Nick finally surpassed Jon and the amazing accomplishment would also be his downfall. Jon accepted his losses at first, but over the course of the next two semesters, things got worse and worse. He began to lose to Nico consistently, and while their KO's were usually fairly even (although Nick's were always higher), it was clear who was the better. After his 3 semester at Stony Brook, Jon began to plan his re-emergence as the superior Smash Brothers player between the two. He spent nearly all of his Christmas break preparing for his next encounter with his rival. Upon being knighted by The Royal Super Smash Brothers Order, Jon felt he was finally prepare to beat Nick. The stage was soon set and the two fabled players once more battled brutally. However, after all the smoke cleared, Nick was still better and won the majority of the matches and had more KO's. This was a brutal shock to Jon and he finally couldn't take it anymore. Unsurprisingly, he soon began to plan Nico's death. Jon bought 10 bottles of concentrated Robotussin and began subvertively lying to Nick about his past experience with Robotussin and propositioned that they both try it one day. Nico, because of his accent and his unfamiliarity with American sarcasm, is very gullible and easily fell for Jon's evil plot. Jon, filled his 5 bottles of Robotussin, instead with Kool Aid while he gave Nick the real deal. They each drank their share and when Jon finished his, he bellowed "ohhhhh yeah" with great satisfaction. Thinking Nick would be too uncoordinated from the drug, Jon challenged Nick to what unexpectedly for Nick, would be his last round of Super Smash. They both made their way to the battle arena that was known to them as James's room and began to play. Nico's mind was heavily drugged by this point and he began to hallucinate. However, instead of becoming too messed up to play, Nick began playing better than anyone had ever played before. Within a matter of seconds, he had mastered the legendary "Wavedash" without even having learned it and even began to exceed the limits of the game. He played so well that James's Gamecube began to smoke and finally exploded into a cloud of smoke that almost seemed to spell out "You are truly the one." However, Jon was the only one to notice this and began to cry a sob that would last the next 2 months of his life. Meanwhile, Nick began to go beserk in a Super Smash based rage. He began to think he was Marth and start wailing on people nearby with a large metal rod. When the police finally showed up to take him away, he was speaking fluent Japanese and his actions were so violent that he needed to be handcuffed. They threw the troubled youth into the police car, and along the way to the station, Nick amazingly opened up the door to the car with his teeth, jumped out screaming "This is only my 500th suicide!!" and was run over by 10 speeding cars.

Maddox, the Pirate [1975- April 6th, 2027]

2004-09-29T07:33:00.000+03:00

In the year 2027 Maddox, the pirate, finally snaps. Made famous by authoring the self-proclaimed "Best page in the universe." He is survived only by his beloved pet Rabbit, who he affectionately named Squirlie. In January of 2022 he developed a sick obsession with the contents of a blueberry pie he bought at an International House of Pancakes. Convinced it could only have been manufactured by Smurfs, who he once referred to in a rare radio interview as "evil communists," he sent a letter to his local IHOP. In the letter he demanded they stop serving blueberry pie, threatening to unleash a series of coordinated, deadly biological attacks on various employees and know IHOP supports if his demand was not met by 2027. His plan was to infect IHOP employees with a deadly form of Syphilis in the event that his very reasonable demand was not meet. Over the next year he kept a diary of his activities. Added together with his theories about the "evil Smurfs," their socialist society, and how they had cornered the blueberry market, the work is published in Scotland under the title "Where Gargamel Went Wong." Much like his old website the book gains a cult following and even makes it briefly onto the UK's best seller list. However, success does not comfort his troubled mind. The April 5th, 2027 deadline passes and he readies himself for war. Armed to the teeth with his pistol, an M4 assault riffle, and several syringes containing a rare, radio-active strain of the Syphilis virus, he begins to lay siege to his local IHOP. However, once outside, it occurs to him that he did not pack a lunch. Hungry from having skipped breakfast, he decides to go inside and get a plain waffle and some Jam before he carries out his attack. As fate would have it, the former president of the united states of America, William Jefferson Clinton, is inside enjoying a hefty IHOP breakfast. Bill's still got that smile, and like a sailor to the sirens, Maddox is drawn in. Fitting the description of a gun-wielding maniac, a member of the secret service unloads two quick shots into his chest. He falls forward, and dies directly on top of Clinton's table. Luckily, the former presidents popcorn shrimp and Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity meal are unharmed. Although Most of his Grits as well as his day are ruined.

Jonathan William Walter (May 2, 1985- November 17, 2038)

2004-09-23T06:02:00.000+03:00

Jonathan William Walter has always had little to say about himself. An incredibly humble creature, Jon has always been kind to those he cares about and never looks upon strangers with prejiduce. While remaining quite cynical about the rest of the world, he learned to just accept most things and observe and report, like a stenographer. You may be thinking, hmm, I bet Old Sven doesn't even know what a stenographer is, but you'd be wrong. However, I'd probably be right in assuming that you don't (Hah! Calling the kettle black!). A stenographer is someone who writes everything that's said in a courtroom. While not exactly the same thing, Jon always had a love for reporting, The News. Throughout his life he grew in prestige and even gained some political respect. His name swept through the journalism world after his exposure of Government Medicare funds being diverted to a Top Secret Military operation for training midget assasins. By the age of 35 he was Chief editor of The Time's Los Angelas bureau, and in 2031 he put out a book entitled "Traffic Light Karma" on a compilation of his many life experiences. However, only a few months after it's release, WW3 struck down upon the Earth. China, the worlds newest superpower, had rashly begun a Chinese supremacy style attack upon the rest of the world because of a devastating insult directed towards their public transportation system made by the country of Australia which was published in People magazine. The ensuing conflict, which happened to involve gamma radiation bombs and the like, left the world in ruin and sparcely populated. Yet Jon seemed to survive the turmoil and lived alone in a rural mountain town in former Colorado. While never too bothered by the events rampaging around the world, he did record them, entombing them forever in print. One low radiation day in the fall of 2038, he decided to try and get his reports on the end of the world published somehow. The 53 year old Jon went out on his bike with his greatest works and began peddling. He hadn't gotten far when a Semi began to appear in the distance. As the Mack Truck Behemoth approached, Jon felt a joy deep inside him. His 20/15 eyes could barely make out the driver, yet he did see who it was. The driver was The Incredible Hulk. Elated, Jon threw his work into the air, spread his arms and was taken away from all of us, by a jolly green being who's wisdom and power we will never understand.

Steven Paul Jobs [February 24, 1955 - September 22, 2015]

2004-09-21T18:48:00.000+03:00

In 2015 Steve Jobs is informed by his top Spy/Dungeon Master "Greg the mighty" of a critical flaw in Microsofts latest OS release [code name: "Barramunda."] Jobs has the information posted on the internet, where it becomes viewable by Hackers all over the world. This results in hundreds of thousands of separate attacks on various Microsoft servers, including Bill Gates own personal home server. Gates becomes furious when the plasma-screen digital paintings that adorn the walls of his mansion are changed by hackers to display various graphic forms of both animal and midget pornography. After years of lusting after profit margins, greed has eaten away at his sanity. Gates swears revenge on Jobs and dedicates a substantial amount of his own fortune to the development of "One foot long robot spiders that spit acid," inspired by the 1984 film "Runaway." However, Gate's evil plan [Codename: Hey, does anyone remember that weird movie with Gene Simmons in it... from the 80s... with acid-spitting robot spiders?] is discovered by the civilian press when a leading scientist on the project is blinded by an errant, somewhat premature, acid ejection. (Side Note: The scientist later became part of a class-action lawsuit, headed by famous actor Rainier Wolfcastle, against the makers of safety goggles that "Do nothing"). Jobs, being Gates equal in both ping pong and lunacy, decides to counter Gates gambit by hiring Tom Selleck, the star of "Runaway," to be his personal body guard. Unfortunately, while Selleck was great in "Three Men and a Baby," he is simply not capable of unclogging coronary arteries, and two weeks into his tenure Jobs dies of a heart attack while on safari in Saskatchewan.

Owen Cinclair, A great carpet salesman (1982-2006)

2004-09-17T03:15:00.000+03:00

Owen Cinclair lived in downtown Bay city for most of his life, alone. His parents died when Owen was only 12 years old. After their death he lived with his senile grandmother named Veronic Hanwacker. Veronic was a nice lady and her husband Stanley left her a toothpaste factory which she sold for 1.5 million dollars. So, Owen was taken care of for the rest of his life... or so he thought at 13. Veronic started to, how can I put this... go nuts. On top of that, Stanley was running an underground movement of sponges before his death. The FBI took all of Stanley"s remaining assets, leaving Veronic a small fund to raise Owen. Owen grew further away from Veronic and deeper into his own lonely world. When Owen was 17 he moved out of the home of Veronic. When he was leaving, she told him "put the toaster in the bagel because the birds won't swim in the apple pie if you make the sun run." Owen found a nice job managing a carpet store and found an apartment downtown on the top floor of an apartment building. One day after watching a special on the life of the armadillo, Owen decided that his life was just as meaningless as everyone else"s so he walked to his window and just jumped out. No one missed him and no one will remember him.