A Eulogy to my Good Friend, John Ahn

John was a man, a man’s man’s man, a man who liked banquet beer, and broads, and ate only barbequed brats, that were of course self prepared with the delicate care of a toll booth operator will Alzheimer’s. John had hair on his arms, and hair on his legs, and hair on his back, and of course hair on his face in the form of a beard, that was thick and dark, and went well with his wardrobe of flannel. John was a lumberjack, a LumberJohn as it were. I mean this literally, you know, you don’t always have to be metaphorical and deep – Kermit the Frog on mescaline may be wise for a time, but eventually you realize that he, like everyone else is just a tadpole with legs. But I digress, and am apologetic, severely so, for I must tell you the story of LumberJohn the lumberjack. He was real manly, you get it, I mean he cut down trees for a living and was strictly carnivorous! His friends were all lumberjacks too, and usually, on the weekends they’d get together at the local shooting range and chew bullets, while shooting their handmade bow- and-arrows at burlap sacks that they stuffed with wood chips and baby robin eggs and fashioned to look like Richard Simmons – the likeness was astounding. Well, one such weekend, while John was waiting for his friend Herb to pick him up from home, he decided to pass the time in a new and exciting way. John had a secret passion for nails. Yes, nails! And no, not the metallic ones, the kind you would expect, but the keratinous ones that protrude from your fingers and toes. Up until now, in his 42 years of sentient life, living in pure masculinity and making Conan the Barbarian look like a tampon commercial coated in Avon Skin-So-Soft Luscious Lip Balm, he had never exercised his fancy. So, having previously purchased some of the finest red nail polish from his secret catalogue subscription to Estee Lauder, he sat down on the floor and began to paint. He tore off his boots. He ripped off his socks. A stench emitted from between his toes. But then, then, delicately, paintbrush to yellow fungus-ed canvas, he stroked and made himself pretty.


And well, you probably guessed it, but Herb walked in the door, just in time to catch John red-handed (finger-nailed to be precise) and he stopped in a shock. John’s heart fluttered, he reeled his head to Herb, and instantly he felt like a steak being cooked in a microwave, marinated with catsup, and served with a side of beets. Words weren’t exchanged, but from that day onward, things were different in the forest. And the shooting range? The shooting range was just shot to hell. Never the same.



God damn you John