It's "Write My Own Obituary" Day

Here's how I imagine it going down:

LOCAL WRITER FOUND DEAD, HAPPY IN SUBURBAN CHICAGO HOME

CHICAGO (Reuters)—Controversial and as-yet-mostly-unknown author Brian O’Mara-Croft, 44, was found dead in his suburban Chicago home yesterday morning in what some on the scene described as “offputting” conditions and at least one regarded as "unspeakably inappropriate."

Although details are as yet unclear, one EMT confirmed the deceased bore a broad grimace pasted across his countenance and a portion of his lower anatomy trapped in “alarming rigor”. Emergency workers quickly left the scene, some holding their pinkie fingers up for delighted onlookers, others in tears.

Said one: “I’m not crying for him. I’ve never even heard of him. Still, alive or deceased, nobody should have to see that.”

His wife of almost 10 years, Patty, shrugged for reporters.

“He died as he lived.” She batted away a tear. “He’d have wanted it this way.”

O’Mara-Croft, who sought international renown for his not-so-family-friendly descriptions of rabbit penises, bat penises, monkey penises, penises ensnared in vacuums and anything “genitalesque”, but whose stated ambition to be "The next Charlie Sheen, admired by millions," was never realized, appears to have suffered a fatal stroke at a time some would consider inopportune. The local coroner refused to speculate whether the film, “Treat Me Like the Pig that I Am #32”, found in the deceased’s DVD player, played any role in his death.

Tearful, his wife added, “I was tired. He was annoyingly drunk. He acted like a big man about how he’d forge on in spite of my refusals.” Looking thoughtful, she added, “I guess this was one journey Mr. Loved-by-Millions needed to take on his own.”

O’Mara-Croft, author of Lost in the Hive, is survived by five children who, although not reached for comment, have been observed smiling and cheerful in spite of the news. A friend of one observed, “You can’t even begin to imagine the weight off of my friend’s shoulders. No son should ever open his Facebook page to a photo of his father dancing in a snowbank in a purple thong. NO son.”

Another friend, who refused to be named, added, “Based on what I saw, I can understand his obsession with penile enhancement. The thong shot looked like two raisins wrestling a malformed earthworm in a frozen coin purse.” On the coroner’s report, the same lower region was described as “average for a Caucasian male.”

Funeral arrangements have yet to be disclosed, although most family members have confirmed they see no reason to attend on a "laundry day".

Reporters caught up with O’Mara-Croft’s widow as she appeared to be pricing coffins at various warehouse stores.

“I came for the jumbo bag of pretzels,” she said, before adding, "And I found them. It's all good."

O’Mara-Croft, in his writing, sought to get a rise out of all of us; ironically, it would seem the rise he got out of himself was his undoing. He will not be missed.

Lost in the Hive CONTEST!!!

My artist-wife Patty created the candy jar shown for the book launch of my book, Lost in the Hive. When this page reaches 500 followers, or when my Facebook "author" page (http://tinyurl.com/4fxxto4) hits 1,000 fans, we will draw a name at random and ship the winner a similar (not exact) "Lost in the Hive"-themed candy jar. Pass it on!!!

Cheers,
Brian

P.S. Depending on how long it takes to reach those lofty heights, the jar may contain my ashes.

Sarcastic SWM Seeks Wealthy Nymphomaniac

As I goofed off on the web this morning, pretending I was doing something that counts for anything, I happened upon this gem from the Fragrant Liar blog. In one of her latest posts, "Fragrant" (a strange first name that hints at qualities sensual and/or unsettling) riffs on her recent frustrations with online dating.

This got me thinking: If Patty finally does run off with a guy who (a) gets dressed for work, (b) isn't a bum and, therefore, (c) isn't me, and I'm cast back into the world of the love-starved (some females) and sex-starved (all males), how might I make myself stand out from the crowd?

Here's what I came up with:

MALE SEEKS FEMALE(S):
Bitter, sarcastic DWM, 44, offers simple tastes, simple thoughts, filthy habits. Has teeth, limbs, too-cute wiry hairs on eyebrows and earlobes. Orson Wellesy physique with seductively rounded torso. Inert. Has worked in past. Heavy smoker; even heavier drinker. Very efficient lovemaker. Coward. Fond of occasional showers. Crybaby. Will lick your face when you're angry to cheer you up. Favorite time of day is sex o'clock (get it? I'm full of such verbal treats). Bit of a foodie--most meals consist of (a) ground beef, (b) pasta or (c) ground beef and pasta. Slob. Will help pick lingerie painful and humiliating to you but fashionable and desirable to me. Will not mark territory with urine (bathroom floor and shower curtain excluded). Amateur photographer and videographer (see "lingerie", above). Words like "dropsy" and "ballcock" make me giggle, sometimes for hours. Charmingly flatulent. You: gainfully employed and/or wealthy, nymphomaniac, 24/7 sports watcher, ten toes, should have pulse.

What do you think? Do you sense a possible love connection?

SUPERZERO--The Adventures of Cap'n Thundersomething

This morning, while relishing an activity Patty deems inappropriate fodder for stories (I was pooping), I happened upon an article in People Magazine called “Superheroes Among Us.” Across the nation, homegrown do-gooders like the Dark Guardian and Phantom Zero don pajamas and bug goggles and hit the mean streets of NY, SF, DC and other acronyms and/or cities. Some fight crime. Others promote patriotism (more difficult than chasing junkies from dark alleys). Still others help the homeless.

At first, I chuckled and thought, “Dorks”. I even reflected upon how super-awesome I was by comparison. And then I realized these 24/7 Halloween people were actually helping those less fortunate. My position softened. From this point forward, they’re Dorks...with Purpose.

Let’s face it: we’ve all yearned for a special gift. As a man, my first dozen items are, of course, carnal. Most involve the moniker "Cap’n ThunderPenis" (sounds best, I think, when pronounced Cap'n Th-th-thuuuuuuuuuuuuuunderPenis)—which, to this day, my wife Patty refuses to call me, even during yay-you’re-drunk-you-can-talk-dirty sex. Patty, of course, focuses on the practical.

“I wish I could just wave a wand and have all this mess go away.”

I look around at our immaculate kitchen, poke my head around the corner into our shiny family room and say, “But the house is spotless.” Whereupon Patty shakes her head and fixes me with a subzero stare.

“No…ALL this mess.”

When I was a kid, I wanted to be the all-powerful cowboy liberating the world from bloodthirsty Indians. BLAM! POW! BLAMMO! The heathen would try to flee, but I’d gun them all down. This would go on for hours, with no adult pausing the action even long enough to inform us that ethnic cleansing, even for pretendsies, was—oh, how to put this—fucking shameful. Even if I can justify my behavior by saying, “I was just a kid,” or “We were less informed in those days,” how then do I explain my assigning the Italian neighbor boys the recurring role of Indians, because somehow that seemed logical?

Some never lose their sense of childhood magic, the dreams of leading good against evil in epic battles. Our son Devin, at almost 21, still poses philosophical questions like, “If the characters from Pokemon went into battle against the Transformers, who would win?” Patty would reply, “                         “* and walk out of the room. I would guess, “Transformers”, which would lead to a 10-minute dissertation about special abilities possessed by the Charizard that Megatron would kill for.

* silence.

When I finished the article (did I mention I'd been pooping?) and returned to the bedroom, I asked Patty, “What special ability could make me a superhero?”

Without a pause: “Well, you drink VERY well.”

“What kind of gift is THAT?”

“Well, you don’t get nasty when you’re drunk.” I was struggling to picture a costume—something bottle-shaped, like me—when Patty added, “But you sometimes get maudlin.”

“Example?”

“Well, you cry during the American national anthem.”

“What’s wrong with that? I’m a patriot!”

“You’re a Canadian!”

Patty then asked what superhero she could be. Drunkman answered without thinking. Mistake.

“How about ‘The Cold Fish’?”

Patty’s mouth fell open. I didn’t dare mention the resemblance to a largemouth bass. She said, “So be it. I’ll be The Cold Fish. No problem*. Nope, no problem at all.”

*Problem.

Patty then renamed me “Offensiveman”, a nod to my gift for saying the most inappropriate thing in every situation. The name will probably stick.

The conversation continued. If we were superheroes, there's a pretty good chance our offspring must also have special powers. So, since Sunday mornings are tailor-made for meaningless whimsies, meet our SuperKids:

THE SMOOCH (aka Devin): Exceptional kissing skills, as evidenced by the 200 or so nauseating Facebook photos of him with his mouth inside his girlfriend’s, like a mother bird barfing up earthworms for her young. Evil.

THE EGOTIST (aka P.J.): Unshakeable belief that no matter how much those around him wish he’d bite his tongue, he feels the world will be a better place when he speaks his mind. We don’t call upon his evil powers often.

THE INDIVIDUALIST (aka Colin): Different from everyone else. If you like something, he won’t. Then, just maybe, you won’t either. And then he’ll like it, because you don’t. Needless to say, he’s quite evil, unless you tell him he is.

TIME STANDS STILL GIRL (aka Kelly): Able to freeze time. No matter what time the family is leaving, or the amount of advance notice provided, and even amid threats of impending child abuse, never walks out the door until everyone else has spent at least 15 minutes grumbling in the car. Unspeakably evil.

THE BEFUDDLER (aka Connor): Promotes insanity. Could convince felons to go straight simply by promising not to ask another pointless question, like, “If you’re such a superhero, why do bears hibernate next to the swallows of San Capistrano?” Evil incarnate.

So we’re all superheroes or supervillains of a sort. Some have more to offer the world than others. Who YOU gonna call?