I feel that creative writing is an honest way to make a living even though it still feels like robbing a casino—and perhaps not getting away with it as the crew from Ocean’s Eleven did. With that stated, my second collection of short writings, More Stories and Additional Stories, should be available as a reasonably priced e-book by the time you read this. I don’t where I get the audacity to keep trying, but I kind of like it.
Since I loosely formatted the whole thing like a newspaper—with sections for top stories, local news, entertainment, sports, and so forth—this story fulfills the obituary portion, toward the book’s conclusion, which comes just before the deeply personal and painful-yet-funny “bottom stories.”
And don’t fret about the title of this story. I’m not dead—not yet, anyway, and for that reason, we all owe it to ourselves to never give up on the people and causes that matter to us. Anyway, here’s “My Dumb Eulogy.”
The year was 1982. A young MTV shockingly aired music-related programming. Ronald Reagan led the country on an outrageous roller coaster ride of ultra-conservatism. And a man and a woman had some baby-makin’ sex. Their names need not be mentioned, but the youngest child of Mr. and Mrs. Olig turned out to be the greatest human being of all time.
The talented visionary showed verbal promise at an early age. His first outburst of communication was not a mere word but an elaborate sentence: “Whoa, Jesus, Mary, and the Holy Ghost, I’m lugging around a 10-pound load of crap here; somebody wanna change me or what?!”
In 1987, he became the youngest person ever to be shot out of a cannon through a series of blazing rings. His parents would later apologize for the reckless act.
At age nine, Nick won the Nobel Prize for coming up with conclusive evidence that Spiderman could indeed beat Batman in a fight.
On his graduation day, he solidified his reputation as class clown by accepting his diploma, pulling out a toy gun from under his gown, and pointing it at the principal before declaring, “JUST KIDDING!” He pulled the trigger and a small banner unfurled from the barrel which read, “School Pride.”
Nick’s legacy of peace and nonviolence was firmly established at age 22 when he pummeled Saddam Hussein in a steel cage wrestling match.
The following year Nick made the move to New York and won a Tony Award for his stirring performance in the musical adaptation of the Jamie Foxx tour de force Booty Call.
He made his contribution to the world of science by renaming that hanging ball in the back of the throat to something plain and easier to remember. Since then, it has been called the “Chankakitanuevenhoto,” the Cherokee word for “simple.”
Before game 7 of the 2017 World Series, Nick was so determined to see his beloved Cubs win that he knocked out, gagged, and stole the uniform of the Yankees’ center fielder in an effort to sabotage the opposing team. Incredibly, nobody detected his ruse, but he accidentally hit three home runs and the Cubs lost.
It was Nick who finally solved the gas crisis when he discovered “Oligass” on Mars. The substance polluted three times worse than regular gas and cost an overwhelming $40 per gallon.
In 2026, he was stricken with a rare terminal illness that he contracted by sharing close quarters with Wookies. When asked by a reporter at a press conference if the doctors had found an effective treatment, a surly Olig replied, “Yeah, it’s in my pants, jackass.” Scientists were so impressed by the witty response that they rallied and worked tirelessly for two months until they discovered the cure.
Nick is probably best remembered for what he did on that fateful day on December 2nd, 2029. A man claiming to be Jesus Christ came back to earth to judge the living and the dead. It was Nick who boldly put the man in a headlock, tore off his mask, and revealed that it was only the prop comic Carrot Top starved for attention.
The blue-eyed visionary once convinced his good friend Swinkle to stop drinking Mountain Dew for Lent. When asked about this period of temperance today, an emotional Swinkle acknowledged those six weeks as the most agonizing and pointless of his entire life.
Always a rascal, Nick once “hacked” into the opened Facebook account of his friend Willy while he was away from his laptop. “Van Halen is lame,” the rascal wrote, “But I sure do love me some Van HAGAR!” When Willy returned from the bathroom, he spotted the fraudulent post and was immediately overcome with rage. He Superman-tackled Nick through the living room window onto a pricker bush. The fallout persisted and the two refused to speak to each other for decades. A month ago, when Nick and Willy crossed paths at a benefit concert to protest the controversial Genocide of the Gingers, the pair finally reconciled. “You’ll always be my best friend and I love you,” Willy told the departed. He then added, “Even though it’s a jerk-move to misrepresent a man’s feelings about Van Halen.”
At age 50, Nick deemed the phrase “drunk as a skunk” inaccurate since skunks don’t traditionally consume alcohol. He explained, “Skunks actually prefer the dizzying highs of sweet, sweet crack.”
A cleaned up and sober Olig opened a daring-yet-effective rehab center at the age of 56. The program actually allowed patients to drink booze, but the liquor was only available in a room haunted by the chattering ghost of Joan Rivers.
Toward the end of his life, Nick successfully argued to atheists worldwide that since they believe in intangible things that can’t be scientifically quantified—entities such as love, hope, dignity, and so forth—they should at least acknowledge the possibility that another intangibility, God, can rightfully be believed in as well. Later that day, he also convinced pious people everywhere that since the message of God is subject to the prophets and all human beings are flawed, the true message of God will inevitably include some errors, and therefore, no religious ideology is going to be 100% correct. At the conclusion of that monumental Thursday, spiritual and secular harmony was achieved for everyone. Except the Scientologists.
Nick and everyone else still considered them a bunch of shameless creeps.
On June 8, 2045, Nicholas John Olig was tragically killed. With a hairdryer in hand, he plunged into the bathtub in a misguided attempt to blow Bubbles. He is survived by two brothers, a sister, six elated ex-wives, an attic full of old nudie magazines, and a robot who mostly just farts. He is not survived by his mysterious companion Rodrigo Bubbles.
I am that aforementioned robot, of course. And thank you all for keeping your composure during this eulogy in spite of all the farts I have been programmed to expel.
As I look into the vast sea of tears before me—excluding the ex-wives—I can only hope Nick’s words of wisdom may console you.
“Yeah, it’s in my pants, jackass.”
Sure it is, pal. Sure it is. Rest peacefully, little guy…
Now who’s up for some space-wings at the Hooter’s on the moon?