Dear Friends, Acquaintances, Sworn Enemies, and Scantily Clad Females,
You must all be aware by now that I live in Louisiana. I am not exactly clear as to what tipped you off. Maybe it was my accent. The way I profane the English language with my every slurred utterance. Perhaps it was my rampant drunkenness…my insipid, indolent, incontinent inebriation. Maybe it’s the way I try to string together words whose meanings I am not entirely sure of. Though, honestly, I suppose it could have been the smell. The cloying scent of old crawfish, dank bayous, and broken dreams wafting up from my posts probably clued you in. Whatever the case, I’m sure you all know by now that God hates Louisiana and hurricanes are the instrument of his righteous holy rage.
I’m writing this to let you all know I will probably be offline for a few days. Where I live we always lose power. So if you don’t hear from me, I don’t want any of you to assume the worst. No, it would be far better if you assumed the worst times a factor of 10. Crank it up a few notches. Anyone can fret around thoughts like ‘gosh, I hope Monte’s not dead’. That’s kind of clichéd though, don’t you think? Dull and boring. How about instead you worry that I died because I went out to wrestle the hurricane with my bare hands and though it was a close contest I ultimately lost. I died a hero’s death while grappling with the physical manifestation Mother Nature’s fury. And ultimately I succumbed to these primal forces not from any fault or weakness of my own, but because I felt compassion for the storm and I let it win. Perhaps somewhere in our contest of wills I fell in love with the swirling madness and the howling rage of the tempest. (She actually sounds a lot like everyone I’ve ever dated.) How could I destroy something so beautiful and untamed? The wet kisses of her rain. The dazzling flash of her electric eyes. The passionate currents of her 100 mph gale force needs. Who am I to smite the storm? (Lets also pretend for the sake of argument that her name isn’t ‘Isaac’)
That’s what you should all assume when I fail to report in on Thursday. That Monte Richard wooed a churning maelstrom of death wearing nothing but mismatched socks and a three dollar smile. And then he was probably decapitated by an uprooted mailbox traveling at half the speed of sound. It was pretty gruesome. I can petty much guarantee there won’t be an open casket at the funeral. Oh, and I’d also just discovered the formula for endless free energy and the cure for ugliness, but now I’ve taken those secrets to my grave and the knowledge is lost to mankind forever. My passing is not just a traumatic loss for the whole world, but also for the countless generations in the future who will not be able to benefit from my awesomeness.
I’ve got bottled water and a flashlight though, so really I should be fine. Still, you never know.