Most obituaries tell us nothing more than a chronological map of someone’s life, and a list of people the dead person knew.
Everyone happens to be beloved by all who knew him, when this is the biggest piece of turdshit I’ve ever heard purported. We’ve all got at least a few enemies, and many more who would take us or leave us, as we should. How does everyone suddenly become so perfect when they ded?

Some of my friends are under the impressions that my job consists of writing obituaries, when in fact I’ve only written one, for myself, with concision, to save everyone a little time before getting my lifeless corpse out of the way for good.

Ian Smitty
Years ago, sure – Few days ago

Ian passed peacefully away when a bomb exploded inside his head. He was surrounded by his other dismembered limbs.

Fella was alright. Beloved aunt, aunt-appreciator, and sloppy contest winner. He always wanted to be the best at hanging out. He enjoyed laughing with his buddies, laughing by himself and all kinds of brain tricks. He wanted to be a writer but instead just wrote stuff down.

He is predeceased by Papa Doc Duvalier and a little over 100,000,000,000 other people.

In lieu of flowers, please tell someone a secret, then run away giggling, then come back and apologize, and be sincere in all three steps.

There will be a bottle service at the clurb on Friesday for all who would like to pour one our for one of their finest homies. A reading of his will will be performed at this time, once everyone is good and sauced.

November 19 – Larry King gets a self-composed obituary
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