Glad I’m in hell, my crappy life on earth was not much to remember. At least not the last part of it. Life up until 40 was pretty damn great. There’s not a band in the Rock N Roll Hall of Fame that I have not partied with. I went to burning man on a portable yacht. I ate 10K worth of Caviar with Andy Warhol. I snorted coke off Jordan Belfort’s ass once. And here’s the kicker: I was the one that actually wrote American Psycho, but gave the manuscript to this cheeky 22-year old rich boy so he could be the talk of the literature world.
Sometimes you gotta take a break. With all my jet-setting and crazy adventures, I just wanted to settle down, and live the rest of my life out in peace, I chose Miami because the weather’s great, the rent is decent, and if anyone came looking for me, asking about some missing artwork from the Louvre, I could quickly escape to Cuba. So I got a house on a quiet street with a tree in the front yard, bought some books, and settled in.
It was fine for a while, but then these three harpies moved in with the whore down the street. God, the noise they’d make, night and day, screaming about cheesecake, Cicily, farms, men, flatulence, whatever. It was like a house of Tourettes! At the same time, the tree in my front yard became a nuisance, the roots started messing up the pipes and the septic tank. I did as any same person would do, I asked to have it removed.
But oh no! The four idiots down the street suddenly acted like they were suffragettes saving the world, and rallied eveyone around to save that damn tree! Their desire to play environmentalism apparently was more important than me being able to flush my shit down my toilet!
On the hours leading up to my end, however, I got them. I got them real good. Having said what I needed to say, I finally felt it was time to pass on to the next stage.
I died letting the dim one think it was her fault.
The four broads insisted on having a funeral for me. I guess that was nice.
They also insisted on spreading my ashes around the tree. Not like a give a fuck.
As an aside, one of my favorite lines was in this episode. The funeral home director introduces him self as Mr. Pfeiffer, pronounced P-Feiffer (no silent P). After he encourages the women to get a casket for Sophia, she replies,
Setup, delivery, GRAND SLAM!
Is hilarity at a funeral home a sitcom trope? I seem to recall a similar scene in Roseanne where Jackie has to pick out a casket for her father while in hysterics.
Anyway, RIP Ms, Claxton, one of my favorite guest stars.