My Last Will And Testament

This entry was posted on Sep 03 2011

Great tragedy has befallen us all this past week. The hurricane? Of course not. In the end, Hurricane Irene was all hype, and no hot-sticky-wet-moist-substance. Weathermen and worrywarts all predicted Doomsday. “Stormpacalypse” they called it. And what happened? We received a little bit of rain, a little bit of wind. Oh, and Home Depot was sold out of batteries, generators, flashlights, lanterns, and tarps before anyone could call the impending disaster “bullshit” (e.g. me). Yes, the hurricane was a colossal let down (just like most of your life stories, stop telling me them). You see the real horror came after the hurricane. The real terror began the following few days. Sure, some trees came down. But what did those trees bring with them? Power lines! For the first time since Snap!’s 1990 hit single, we don’t got the power!

You call that a storm? I shit bigger storms than that.

Everyone who works at LIPA should have their spines ripped out of their conscious bodies and shown to them, right before having cannibals (who will work per diem) tear them limb from limb, and devour their traitorous flesh! How could these people leave us without power for days on end? How could they expect us to adapt to a world without electricity? Evolution is a crock! Everyone knows that! Humans (and everything else alive) DO NOT adapt to their surroundings! God gives us a heartbeat, plants some trees around us, and then takes a nap! If the world floods, we won’t grow gills after millions of years of drowning! If the world burns, our skin won’t become flame retardant after millions of years of searing! If the world turns into flan, we won’t all of a sudden decide we like flan! Our palettes will continue to reject it! Get real, fools! So, for LIPA to expect us to be alright without lights and television and radio and computers… well, then they don’t deserve the spines we pay for.

No one took this power outage worse than me. Don’t even try and argue this point. I lost it, man. Anytime a blackout happens, I fucking lose it, man. I don’t know what to do with myself. Candles? Eerie silence? I walk through my house like a zombie with a flashlight, constantly flicking light switches and trying to look up ESPN scores, never remembering that I’m living in the dark ages. But usually this only lasts for a day. Not this time. This time it lasted for five days! Never before have I ever been this acutely aware of my addiction to technology. I loathe anything not plugged into a wall. And that’s why you’re reading this. Because sometime during this five day period, I remembered how to form sentences with words (and what words are), and wrote this piece. What is this? Is it an obituary? Is it a diary? What you’re about to read is the last five days of my life. God rest my soul.

DAY 1 – Acceptance

I wake up from the alleged hurricane and discover that the power is out. I try my very best to let a calm rush over me. I’ve been through situations like this before. My life coach and therapist and court ordered psychiatrist have warned me of events like this. I decide everything is going to be alright. I decide I’m going to rise to the occasion and not freak out about a little darkness. I setup several candles around my room and place a butane extension lighter on my desk. I balk at the idea of using a traditional lighter, like for cigarettes and marijuana. Not so much because of my disdain for those two smoking products, but because I’m not good at using lighters. I always seem to burn my fingers. Don’t you dare laugh! I take two of the three house flashlights. I need them more than the others. “The Others”? Is this foreshadowing? Why do I decide to call them this? I shake off these thoughts and get back to my work. But there is no other work. Just darkness. What am I supposed to do with the rest of my day? How am I supposed to know how my fantasy team is doing? Dear God, how am I supposed to change my lineups for the upcoming week?! I lift a vase and prepare to smash it to pieces when I hear the voice of my court ordered psychiatrist in my head… “Joe, try not to be so fucking crazy, ya know? Nobody like no crazy folk around ’em, ya heard?” I lay the vase down. I take deep breaths. I’m not going to make it. Scratch that, I’m going to be fine. As long as the power comes back soon. It’ll be back on by tomorrow, I’m sure of it.

Damn them! But what's with the racism...? Uncalled for, man.

DAY 2 – The Breaking Point

A second day without power. Why hasn’t it been restored? What is LIPA doing? I imagine all the LIPA higher-ups resting in their cash-filled leather beanbag chairs, basking in their air-conditioned mansions, while their million watt generators let unholy amounts of electricity burst throughout their circuits! It angers me to unreasonable points. I decide to take it out on the people I love most. I replace the toothpaste in my father’s Sensodyne tube with maggots. I fill my mother’s pillowcase with maggots. I stop paying my maggot delivery man with cash, replacing the bills instead with Trident Layers Gum, which at first sounds just as awesome as the commercial describes, but it’s a bummer for him considering he’s recently had root canals on both sides of his mouth. I punch innocent puppy dogs directly in the face. I shave cats, dip them in glue, and throw feathers on them, turning them into cat-chicken hybrids, and then mock them for being different. I’m meaner than I’ve ever been, and it gets me off. I furiously masturbate for hours and hours until darkness consumes my room and I don’t bother to light the candles because who wants to see the face of a man who’s been furiously masturbating for hours on end? No one. They just want to hear the grunts and pounding. They want to hear that man break. They want to hear, for some sick reason, the ejaculate hit the wall, possibly to judge the speed the stream releases in comparison to their own. Unless it’s a woman listening, in which case she just enjoys the sounds that emanate from a real man.

He's the best in his industry, but he doesn't come cheap!

DAY 3 – Regression

My girlfriend leaves me. Her house’s electricity has been restored and can’t bare to be in a relationship with someone who lives like I do. Without power. When she leaves, she spits in my face and calls me a faggot. I don’t remember her being this bigoted, but I don’t remember a lot of things these days. I’ve stop showering. I’ve stopped a lot of things. I’ve regressed to that of a Neanderthal. I don’t use bathrooms anymore. I fashioned a makeshift shovel out of the metal from picture frames and pieces of my dressers, mending them together with electrical tape (oh, the irony!). I use the shovel to dig a hole in my floor. I immediately begin to use the hole as my latrine, sometimes pulling handfuls of excrement out of it to use in my cave paintings. My walls are covered in shit cave art. They’re mostly pictures of animals I’ve slaughtered. I hunt them in my backyard when the sun comes up. I pray to the sun everyday, having forsaken my religion. I smash in the skulls of small rodents (chipmunks and squirrels mostly) and feast on their gamey, disease ridden meat. I use the blood from the animals as face paint. I cover as much of my body as I can with rodent blood and scare the neighborhood children when they pass. I scream at them. “I’m going to swallow your eyes whole, you little motherfuckers!” I scream. “I’m going to break into your house and rape your mother until pregnancy, and then perform an amateur abortion during the ninth month!” I holler. They throw garbage at me when I chase them, but when I catch what they’ve thrown in my mouth and swallow it, they begin to cry and find shelter in their homes. I don’t know how much longer I can go on. The rodents sustain me. Making art with my shit and piss keeps me intellectually sharp. But somehow I feel empty and hollow. Maybe if I kill and paint more?

DAY 4 – Deterioration

My body is withering away. My stove is electric, and all the food in my fridge and freezer has expired. The rodent meat has certainly given me a tapeworm. I attempted to pull it out, but I think I accidentally grabbed hold of my colon. It’ still hanging out of me. It’s pretty gross. I’m a mere hundred and two pounds. I believe I’m below Christian Bale in The Machinist weight. I’m proud of that accomplishment, but acknowledge I may not be that healthy. My hair is falling out in patches. It’s mostly from my crotch. I haven’t urinated in two days, but my defecation is reaching new highs. It’s lot of bloody chunks, but I’m sure that will pass. During the day I’m blind, the sun being too bright. At night however, I’m also blind. My tongue has fallen out and a rat snatched it up. I’ve grown a number of goiter-like growths that seem to pulsate to the rhythm of Barenaked Ladies’ “One Week”. The top half of my body’s skin is hard and leathery, like a cow’s hide. You couldn’t break through it with one of those Rachael Ray knives. The lower half of my body’s skin is shockingly flimsy. Sometimes a slight breeze takes off much of my right leg’s flesh. Luckily, I don’t have much blood left, so I easily wrap the skin back around the bone, tying it off with a taut line hitch. I still think I look great, but have to admit, only if the person observing me is incredibly generous with his compliments.

DAY 5 – Darkness

I’ve gone as far as I can. I’ve taken LIPA’s “social experiment” to my limit. I’m laying on my back in a impressively large pile of rodent carcasses and human remains. Yesterday evening I had started luring school children into my room. These school children were much younger and much more naïve than the ones that throw garbage at me. These are the ones that I tie up and eat alive, starting from the face. Oh, how they scream. But I don’t stop. The darkness has crept in again. I can’t see a thing. I don’t know if my eyes are open or not. It doesn’t matter, I guess. There’s no skin left. I’m just bones and organs, but somehow, medically fascinating actually, I’m still alive. I let the last breath in my lungs out and fade away. It’s at this last fleeting moment that I barely see the blinking green lights that flash on my printer and computer tower. Are they real? Should I have held out hope for just another minute or two? Or was it a mirage?


Folks, five days without power proved too much for my powerful mind and body to withstand. Turns out I’m not as invincible as you all unanimously thought. So, that means I have a lot of things to give away, along with my millions of dollars in savings bonds. The noble thing to do would of course be to give the money to needy charities. The ones that work to find cures for cancer and heart disease and AIDS. But that’s just not my style. I mean, why would I want to help society? All society has ever done for me is, oh I don’t know, KILL ME by not giving my precious electricity back! No, in my will all the money and bonds and expensive collectibles and phenomenal wardrobe attire and porn and DVDs and books will be burned in front of several of the most prestigious charities and hospitals. My lawyers will throw human hair onto the fire to make sure no one tries to salvage anything. The smell will be too awful to try anything that foolish. I will also have the homes of ten people I know blown up. The detonation could happen at anytime and the names will be drawn at random from a hat containing one hundred people I have met over the course of my lifetime. In the hat will be friends, family members, enemies, acquaintances, co-workers, and anyone else who has crossed my path. In death, I’m more bitter and malicious than ever!

Check out my penmanship! I got really good at calligraphy!

LIPA fucked us all this past week, not the “hurricane”. Weather is unpredictable. We could have been hit worse, or not at all. Trees fall for no reason. Literally, NO reason. Sometimes roots just give out. Science can not explain this. That being said, I urge all of you to take up this cause as your top priority. A revolution must start now, so that LIPA never leaves us without power again. They did this on purpose. They could have fixed those power lines and grids and shit anytime they wanted. Why didn’t they? Because our suffering is what keeps them looking so young. And now I’m dead. All future articles you read under my moniker are posthumous. It’s all over but the crying, which will continue forever, because I was beloved by so many, many people all across this ungrateful nation, and therefore the world. I’m dead, and so are all of you.

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