Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  2000

  PAUL SIMMS

  A PRAYER

  LORD?

  Please don’t let me die in a funny way. Like being beaten to death with a shoe. Especially not my own shoe. And, if it absolutely has to be my own shoe, I’d rather not be wearing it at the time.

  Or like choking on my own fist during a bar bet.

  Perhaps I should clarify a little. I do know that I’m going to die someday. (Maybe soon! That’s Your call.) And I know there’s nothing funny about death—at least, that’s the current thinking from this side. I’m just asking to not die in a way that leads people who don’t know me to e-mail one another news items about my death. For instance:

  Please don’t let me get so fat that paramedics have to come to my house and cut out a wall to remove me but then bang my head against a load-bearing pillar in the process, thus killing me.

  Please don’t let me die on or near or—perhaps worst of all—because of a toilet. (This includes a urinal or a baseball-stadium-style urine trough, in addition to a standard commode.)

  Please don’t let my death in any way involve one of those giant inflatable rats that union protesters put up outside nonunion job sites. Or a blimp of any kind. Until I see some evidence to the contrary, I’m going to have to say that my dying because of just about anything inflatable would be something I’d rather avoid. A hot-air balloon, I guess, would be okay, but only if I’m actually in the balloon at the time. At least that would be kind of rugged and outdoorsy. What I’m trying to say is: If someone else’s hot-air balloon falls out of the sky and smothers me while I’m lying in a hammock reading Hot Air Balloon Enthusiast magazine, I’m going to be a little pissed.

  I apologize for that language, Lord, but I’m just trying to be honest with You.

  A vehicular accident? Fine. Bring it on. I understand that, statistically, there’s a pretty good chance of that happening anyway. Just please don’t let it involve a moped. Or a go-kart.

  Also, I’d prefer not to die in a head-on collision with someone who—against all odds—has the same name as me. Or anyone named, for instance, Roger Crash. Or Ed Oncollision. Or Jennifer Safedriver. I could go on, but I think You get the point.

  I’m sure You get this one a lot, but: Please don’t let me die during sex. Unless the technical cause of my death is a heart attack or a stroke. If I have to die during sex, please don’t make the cause of death any of the following: extreme dehydration, a previously undiagnosed allergy to fruit-scented or “massage” oils, dermatological complications arising from severe rug burn, or anything involving the use or misuse of any object best described as “foreign.”

  Please don’t let me die in a way that allows the Post to run a small item about my death on page 12 or 13 or so under the headline “DUDE, WHERE’S MY CORPSE?” Or “DUMB AND DEADER.” Or “DEAD AND DEADER.” Or “THE HOUSE OF SAND AND DEAD.” Or “J. LO’S LATEST NUPTIALS POSTPONED DUE TO LETHAL TENT-RAISING MISHAP.”

  Please don’t let me cut my own head off while trying to revive the lost Scouting pastime of mumblety-peg.

  I would have to consider any fatality involving a prolapsed anus, of course, absolutely beyond the pale. I mean, come on, Lord.

  Also—and I’m not trying to split hairs with You, Lord—when I ask You to not let me die in a funny way, I also mean please don’t let me die in a noteworthily ironic way. Meaning: whether my death is “ha-ha” funny or the other kind of funny, neither of those is what I’m in the market for. For instance, please don’t let me go on a Sleepwalkers Anonymous Outward Bound–type retreat and sleepwalk into a canyon or gorge in the middle of the night.

  And, if You deem it necessary (or just amusing) to take my mind before You take my body, let’s try to keep the progressive dementia noble and epically sad rather than comical. For example: Please let the last face I recognize be the photograph of a long-lost high-school girlfriend and not one of the plucky toddlers from the animated show Rugrats. In my final moments, let me awaken—apparently lucid—in the predawn hours calling out for a kiss on the forehead from a dead great-aunt rather than from the mustachioed black bartender on The Love Boat.

  Or from the actor who played him, for that matter.

  Even if I don’t die in a funny way, I’d still rather not die on the same day as some other person who does die in a funny way. Because I don’t want any version of the following conversation to occur between my friends:

  FRIEND ONE: Did you read his obituary?

  FRIEND TWO: Yeah. Nice piece.

  FRIEND ONE: Very nice.

  FRIEND TWO: He would have liked it.

  FRIEND ONE: That he would have. That he would have.

  (Awkward silence.)

  FRIEND TWO: Did you see that other obituary about the banana wholesaler who actually slipped on the—

  FRIEND ONE: Yeah. You couldn’t make that up!

  Well, that’s about it, Lord.

  Actually—as long as I’ve got You, let me just mention a few final ways for me to die that may or may not seem funny to You, depending on Your sense of humor.

  I would rather be burned beyond all recognition than burned almost beyond all recognition, especially if the pictures are going to end up on the Internet.

  If some kind of rare organism eats away at my body from the inside, please let it be microscopic. Or just slightly larger than microscopic. Let’s put it this way: If it’s big enough to have a face, that would be too big.

  Thank You for Your time, Lord.

  (Also: Ted Lange. That’s the name of the actor who played the bartender on The Love Boat whose name I couldn’t remember before. I Googled him for You, Lord. Which has got to count for something, right?)

  2004

  PAUL RUDNICK

  MY LIVING WILL

  1. If I should remain in a persistent vegetative state for more than fifteen years, I would like someone to turn off the TV.

  2. If I remain motionless for an extended period and utter only guttural, meaningless sounds, I would like a Guggenheim.

  3. If I am unable to recognize or interact with friends or family members, I still expect gifts.

  4. If I am unable to feed, clean, or dress myself, I would like to be referred to as “Mr. Trump.”

  5. Do not resuscitate me before noon.

  6. If I do not respond to pinches, pinpricks, rubber mallets, or other medical stimuli, please stop laughing.

  7. If I no longer respond to loved ones’ attempts at communication, ask them about our last car trip.

  8. Once I am allowed to die a painless and peaceful death, I would like my organs donated to whoever can catch them.

  9. If my death is particularly dramatic, I would like to be played by Hilary Swank, for a slam dunk.

  10. If there is any family dispute over my medical condition, it must be settled with a dreidel.

  11. Even if I remain in a persistent vegetative state for more than fifteen years, that still doesn’t mean bangs.

  12. If my doctor pronounces me brain-dead, I would like to see the new Ashton Kutcher movie.

  13. If I remain unconscious during a painful, lingering illness, I would like the following life lessons to be published in a book entitled Tuesdays with Paul:

  i. Treasure every moment.

  ii. Love everyone.

  iii. If you bought this in hardcover, you’re an idiot.

  14. I do not wish to be kept alive by any machine that has a “Popcorn” setting.

  15. I would like to die at home, surrounded by my attorneys.

  16. If my loved ones insist that the cost of my medical care has become an impossible burden, show them a Polaroid of their “beach shack.”

  17. In lieu of flowers or donations, I would prefer rioting.

  18. I would like my entire estate to become the property of my cat, Fluffy, who said, “He wouldn’t want to live like this, with that zit.”

  19. Assume that, even in a coma, I can still hear discussions about my apartment.

  20. If there is
any talk of canonizing me, please remember that I have often held the elevator for people who were still getting their mail, that I have twice offered a cab to a woman in a fur coat even though I was totally there first, and that I always waited to make derogatory comments until after the couple with the double stroller was a block away.

  21. In the event of an open coffin, I would like smoky evening eyes.

  22. At my memorial service, I would like my clergyman to begin his eulogy with the words “I suppose, in a way, we all killed him.”

  2005

  JACK HANDEY

  WHAT I’D SAY TO THE MARTIANS

  PEOPLE of Mars, you say we are brutes and savages. But let me tell you one thing: if I could get loose from this cage you have me in, I would tear you guys a new Martian asshole. You say we are violent and barbaric, but has any one of you come up to my cage and extended his hand? Because, if he did, I would jerk it off and eat it right in front of him. “Mmm, that’s good Martian,” I would say.

  You say your civilization is more advanced than ours. But who is really the more “civilized” one? You, standing there watching this cage? Or me, with my pants down, trying to urinate on you? You criticize our Earth religions, saying they have no relevance to the way we actually live. But think about this: If I could get my hands on that god of yours, I would grab his skinny neck and choke him until his big green head exploded.

  We are a warlike species, you claim, and you show me films of Earth battles to prove it. But I have seen all the films about twenty times. Get some new films, or, so help me, if I ever get out of here I will empty my laser pistol into everyone I see, even pets.

  Speaking of films, I could show you some films, films that portray a different, gentler side of Earth. And while you’re watching the films I’d sort of slip away, because guess what: The projector is actually a thing that shoots out spinning blades! And you fell for it! Well, maybe not now you wouldn’t.

  You point to your long tradition of living peacefully with Earth. But you know what I point to? Your stupid heads.

  You say there is much your civilization could teach ours. But perhaps there is something that I could teach you—namely, how to scream like a parrot when I put your big Martian head in a vise.

  You claim there are other intelligent beings in the galaxy besides earthlings and Martians. Good, then we can attack them together. And after we’re through attacking them we’ll attack you.

  I came here in peace, seeking gold and slaves. But you have treated me like an intruder. Maybe it is not me who is the intruder but you.

  No, not me. You, stupid.

  You keep my body imprisoned in this cage. But I am able to transport my mind to a place far away, a happier place, where I use Martian heads for batting practice.

  I admit that sometimes I think we are not so different after all. When you see one of your old ones trip and fall down, do you not point and laugh, just as we on Earth do? And I think we can agree that nothing is more admired by the people of Earth and Mars alike than a fine, high-quality cigarette. For fun, we humans like to ski down mountains covered with snow; you like to “milk” bacteria off of scum hills and pack them into your gill slits. Are we so different? Of course we are, and you will be even more different if I ever finish my homemade flamethrower.

  You may kill me, either on purpose or by not making sure that all the surfaces in my cage are safe to lick. But you can’t kill an idea. And that idea is: me chasing you with a big wooden mallet.

  You say you will release me only if I sign a statement saying that I will not attack you. And I have agreed, the only condition being that I can sign with a long sharp pen. And still you keep me locked up.

  True, you have allowed me reading material—not the “human reproduction” magazines I requested but the works of your greatest philosopher, Zandor or Zanax or whatever his name is. I would like to discuss his ideas with him—just me, him, and one of his big, heavy books.

  If you will not free me, at least deliver a message to Earth. Send my love to my wife, and also to my girlfriend. And to my children, if I have any anyplace. Ask my wife to please send me a bazooka, which is a flower we have on Earth. If my so-called friend Don asks you where the money I owe him is, please anally probe him. Do that anyway.

  If you keep me imprisoned long enough, eventually I will die. Because one thing you Martians do not understand is that we humans cannot live without our freedom. So, if you see me lying lifeless in my cage, come on in, because I’m dead. Really.

  Maybe one day we will not be the enemies you make us out to be. Perhaps one day a little Earth child will sit down to play with a little Martian child, or larva, or whatever they are. But, after a while, guess what happens: the little Martian tries to eat the Earth child. But guess what the Earth child has? A gun. You weren’t expecting that, were you? And now the Martian child is running away, as fast as he can. Run, little Martian baby, run!

  I would like to thank everyone for coming to my cage tonight to hear my speech. Donations will be gratefully accepted. (No Mars money, please.)

  2005

  JACK HANDEY

  THIS IS NO GAME

  THIS is no game. You might think this is a game, but, trust me, this is no game.

  This is not something where rock beats scissors or paper covers rock or rock wraps itself up in paper and gives itself as a present to scissors. This isn’t anything like that. Or where paper types something on itself and sues scissors.

  This isn’t something where you yell “Bingo!” and then it turns out you don’t have bingo after all, and what are the rules again? This isn’t that, my friend.

  This isn’t something where you roll the dice and move your battleship around a board and land on a hotel and act like your battleship is having sex with the hotel.

  This isn’t tiddlywinks, where you flip your tiddly over another player’s tiddly and an old man winks at you because he thought it was a good move. This isn’t that at all.

  This isn’t something where you sink a birdie or hit a badminton birdie or do anything at all with birdies. Look, just forget birdies, okay?

  Maybe you think this is all one big joke, like the farmer with the beautiful but promiscuous daughter. But what they don’t tell you is the farmer became so depressed that he eventually took his own life.

  This is not some brightly colored, sugarcoated piece of candy that you can brush the ants off of and pop in your mouth.

  This is not playtime or make-believe. This is real. It’s as real as a beggar squatting by the side of the road, begging, and then you realize, Uh-oh, he’s not begging.

  This is as real as a baby deer calling out for his mother. But his mother won’t be coming home anytime soon, because she is drunk in a bar somewhere.

  It’s as real as a mummy who still thinks he’s inside a pyramid, but he’s actually in a museum in Ohio.

  This is not something where you can dress your kid up like a hobo and send him out trick-or-treating, because, first of all, your kid’s twenty-three, and, secondly, he really is a hobo.

  All of this probably sounds old-fashioned and “square” to you. But if loving your wife, your country, your cats, your girlfriend, your girlfriend’s sister, and your girlfriend’s sister’s cat is “square,” then so be it.

  You go skipping and prancing through life, skipping through a field of dandelions. But what you don’t see is that on each dandelion is a bee, and on each bee is an ant, and the ant is biting the bee and the bee is biting the flower, and if that shocks you then I’m sorry.

  You have never had to struggle to put food on the table, let alone put food on a plate and try to balance it on a spoon until it gets to your mouth.

  You will never know what it’s like to work on a farm until your hands are raw, just so people can have fresh marijuana. Or what it’s like to go to a factory and put in eight long hours and then go home and realize that you went to the wrong factory.

  I don’t hate you; I pity you. You will never appreciate th
e magnificent beauty of a double rainbow, or the plainness of a regular rainbow.

  You will never grasp the quiet joy of holding your own baby, or the quiet comedy of handing him back to his “father.”

  I used to be like you. I would put my napkin in my lap, instead of folding it into a little tent over my plate, like I do now, with a door for the fork to go in.

  I would go to parties and laugh—and laugh and laugh—every time somebody said something, in case it was supposed to be funny. I would walk in someplace and slap down a five-dollar bill and say, “Give me all you got,” and not even know what they had there. And whenever I found two of anything I would hold them up to my head like antlers, and then pretend that one “antler” fell off.

  I went waltzing along, not caring where I stepped or if the other person even wanted to waltz.

  Food seemed to taste better back then. Potatoes were more potatoey, and turnips less turnippy.

  But then something happened, something that would make me understand that this is no game. I was walking past a building and I saw a man standing high up on a ledge. “Jump! Jump!” I started yelling. What happened next would haunt me for the rest of my days: The man came down from the building and beat the living daylights out of me. Ever since then, I’ve realized that this is no game.

  Maybe one day it will be a game again. Maybe you’ll be able to run up and kick a pumpkin without people asking why you did that and if you’re going to pay for it.

  Perhaps one day the Indian will put down his tomahawk and the white man will put down his gun, and the white man will pick up his gun again because, Ha-ha, sucker.

  One day we’ll just sit by the fire, chew some tobacky, toast some marshmackies, and maybe strum a tune on the ole guitacky.

  And maybe one day we’ll tip our hats to the mockingbird, not out of fear but out of friendliness.

  If there’s one single idea I’d like you to take away from this, it is: This is no game. The other thing I’d like you to think about is, could I borrow five hundred dollars?