I was born in 1919, my father
was a Doughboy. That doesn't mean he made bread, that means he was a soldier
in WWI. And I was the result of a proud man's passion after spending three
months in a village full of grateful horny French girls and somehow keeping
faithful to his wife and returning to see that faith rewarded. I was raised
to be an honorable and simple man. In a world of people looking for the next
best thing, I was happy with what I could get. I raised 2 fine daughters that
way. This is the way I want to be remembered. I want to be remembered by my
wife as a good man, faithful, loyal, and in love with her even though she
kinda got porky towards the end. Looks aren't important to me, love is. Same
goes for my daughters, got bless them I hope they do meet some nice man and
have my grandkids for me to carry on my name. I want to be remembered by the
people I worked with as friendly and hard working. I want them to cry when
someone else brings in doughnuts on the last day of the month instead of me.
What will I miss now that I'm gone? Well, my family and my job at the asbestos
removal company to be sure. And the simple pleasures of life. Like fishing
in the river and throwing them back because the mercury levels were too high.
And I'll miss corndogs. How I loved a good corndog, dripping with mustard
and ketchup, the little rivers of condiment dripping off my lips on to my
shirt as I wolf them down. My wife taking off the shirt and yelling at me
that she would never get that stain out and then smacking her on the ass and
telling her to take it to the laundromat and make it happen. And then sitting
down and finishing that corndog out in the hot July sun with mustard and ketchup
caked into my chest hair, savoring every last delicious bite of hot dog and
cornmeal and then picking my teeth with the stick. And having my daughters
run to the store to buy another package of six frozen corndogs and just eating
them until I was too bloated to move and then sitting down in my favorite
chair and killing a fifth of Mohawk rum. Corndogs and Mowhawk 100 proof rum,
yeah, that is what I'll miss. Goodbye life, I hope there is a corn dog waiting
in heaven for me. If you want to find me in Heaven, I'll be shit-faced with
St. Peter running the counter of Big Dick's Corn-Dog Stand, serving up a holy
helping of god's most perfect snack. Remember me, remember me fondly·
Big Dick
1948-1998
"I used to like Corn Dogs"
