Film at 11 - PortlandBarFly.com
By David N. Krough
“Death destroys a man; the idea of death saves him.” — E.M. Forester
I live with death every day. And as we all get one breath closer to the Other Side, the clock ticks away with fabulously fatalistic trouble around every corner.
The leading cause of death on this Earth is birth, so make merry, bitches — and get out of the way – because we're checking out at every turn.
It is said comedy is just a mask for the tragedy of this life. Tears of a clown and all that. Break a man's heart and you've got tragedy. Mace the fucker in the eyes and roll him down some stairs, now that's good stuff. High-God-dang-larious cruelty.
It's not funny until someone gets hurt. You should hear the wit of your local mortician.
In the news business we deal with first responders in the front lines all over the world, all day long. The places where the Reaper's blade is constantly harvesting souls and close enough to feel its icy swish. So, naturally, we look for death that makes good comedy. Not referenced, as such of course, but some of us more ghoulish fiends must separate the stories from the mere statistics.
I'm surrounded by run-of-the-mill deaths all day long: gore-spattered freeways, overdoses, jealous-lover stabbings, strangulations, drug-deal shootings, police chases, boat sinkings, house-fire crispy critters, drownings, teen suicides, child thrashings, pit-bull chompings, meth-lab explosions and terrorist bombings. Your eventual and sudden demise better be a) caught on video, or 2) involve naughty sex and body parts that make us giggle. Otherwise ya ain't gettin' any ink or airtime whatsoever.
Stop trying to lead interesting LIVES, you attention-starved whores, just make sure you die freakier DEATHS! With witnesses. Witnesses with video cameras. And pit bulls. Fodder for the funny bone. I fear no death, yet my soul would buckle at the fallout if it happened in some freak accident involving sexual positions, severed parts or public restrooms. A coronary in the buffet line. I know all too well how we speak of those suckers.
Then there's the self-inflicted kind. As we used to morbidly joke back in high school, don't kill yourself dude, everyone will make fun of you. Remember the cracks about the golfer kid who hung himself in the classroom with an electrical cord? He stayed after school to “practice his swing.” He was just “hanging around.”
I'd prefer a nice nodding off; “he passed away in his sleep.” Now that's relaxation, brothers and sisters! No messy cleanup, no evidence to be hidden before the coroner arrives.
Either that or the Blaze of Glory. It would be the grand exclamation point.
“Writer killed in sex offender shootout at local daycare while saving tsunami orphans”
“Local rock icon blown to shit mist diffusing terrorist nuke at east-side strip club”
“Fatal stroke: Nurses convention orgy ends in death for Portland heartthrob”
Someone turn out the lights.
“Death destroys a man; the idea of death saves him.” — E.M. Forester
I live with death every day. And as we all get one breath closer to the Other Side, the clock ticks away with fabulously fatalistic trouble around every corner.
The leading cause of death on this Earth is birth, so make merry, bitches — and get out of the way – because we're checking out at every turn.
It is said comedy is just a mask for the tragedy of this life. Tears of a clown and all that. Break a man's heart and you've got tragedy. Mace the fucker in the eyes and roll him down some stairs, now that's good stuff. High-God-dang-larious cruelty.
It's not funny until someone gets hurt. You should hear the wit of your local mortician.
In the news business we deal with first responders in the front lines all over the world, all day long. The places where the Reaper's blade is constantly harvesting souls and close enough to feel its icy swish. So, naturally, we look for death that makes good comedy. Not referenced, as such of course, but some of us more ghoulish fiends must separate the stories from the mere statistics.
I'm surrounded by run-of-the-mill deaths all day long: gore-spattered freeways, overdoses, jealous-lover stabbings, strangulations, drug-deal shootings, police chases, boat sinkings, house-fire crispy critters, drownings, teen suicides, child thrashings, pit-bull chompings, meth-lab explosions and terrorist bombings. Your eventual and sudden demise better be a) caught on video, or 2) involve naughty sex and body parts that make us giggle. Otherwise ya ain't gettin' any ink or airtime whatsoever.
Stop trying to lead interesting LIVES, you attention-starved whores, just make sure you die freakier DEATHS! With witnesses. Witnesses with video cameras. And pit bulls. Fodder for the funny bone. I fear no death, yet my soul would buckle at the fallout if it happened in some freak accident involving sexual positions, severed parts or public restrooms. A coronary in the buffet line. I know all too well how we speak of those suckers.
Then there's the self-inflicted kind. As we used to morbidly joke back in high school, don't kill yourself dude, everyone will make fun of you. Remember the cracks about the golfer kid who hung himself in the classroom with an electrical cord? He stayed after school to “practice his swing.” He was just “hanging around.”
I'd prefer a nice nodding off; “he passed away in his sleep.” Now that's relaxation, brothers and sisters! No messy cleanup, no evidence to be hidden before the coroner arrives.
Either that or the Blaze of Glory. It would be the grand exclamation point.
“Writer killed in sex offender shootout at local daycare while saving tsunami orphans”
“Local rock icon blown to shit mist diffusing terrorist nuke at east-side strip club”
“Fatal stroke: Nurses convention orgy ends in death for Portland heartthrob”
Someone turn out the lights.
