I’m Going To Just Write My Eulogy Myself, I Guess

By Jason Ryan

From: CSDaveWilcox@MatrixBillingSolutions.com

To: Billing Department, HR Department, CSTeam, Maintenance Staff, ITSupport

All right, guys, I can take a hint. After my 4th (but not final, FYI) attempt to organize an office-wide fantasy baseball league was ignored and rebuffed: I get it. You do not care for me as a human being in general. I can read the writing on the wall: I will die friendless and alone. That much is clear. I have come to terms with this and it is no longer coming up in therapy sessions with Dr. Mueller. However, I would like something nice read at my funeral despite the fact that it will be sparsely attended (local family members, Dr. Mueller, people who feel guilty for owing me money at the time of my death, Dr, Mueller’s receptionist maybe, etc.). I have read many of your inner-office memos and long-winded e-mails explaining how you “don’t like baseball” or “fantasy sports” and, believe me; I don’t trust a single one of you — no offense — to handle my eulogy. Therefore I have decided to write my own, to be read by whomever is reading this who is the most comfortable with public speaking (Kevin in HR, probably).

Note to presenter: try to capture my curmudgeonly yet lovable tone throughout except where noted.

Note: Don’t read the things in italics, Kevin.

Hello, dearest family, friends (use air quotes for friends) and loved ones of the dearly departed. Before I begin this eulogy in earnest I’m obligated to inform you that it’s being sponsored today by SquareSpace.com (note: or whatever sponsors every single podcast at the time of my death). Square Space: It’s Hip To Be Square.

Hold for laughter and/or applause.

We are here today to honor a man who was pretty OK. A man who died as he lived: jaywalking across a busy street to avoid running into somebody he knew. Rest in peace, Dave.

Do that thing where you tap your fist against your chest, kiss your fingers and point up, like an athlete or youth minister with street cred.

You may be asking yourself, “Who exactly was this man?” “What made him tick?” “What kind of man was he?” “Did they rent or own?” “Did they have any cool stuff I could have?” Other such questions.

Well, our dear pal here was many things; decent son, mediocre brother, devoted customer service representative, frequent answer to the question “what’s that smell,” Mason jar collector, saver-upper-to-buy-a-banjo, amateur eulogy writer, deserver of a raise. Truly a Renaissance Man.

Most importantly, he was a tremendously skilled lover. I cannot re-state this enough. If you are a woman and you missed out on making gently effective love with the deceased…you really missed out. So please, a moment of silence for these unlucky women.

Pause for a minute of silence. A full minute. Time it. I’ll know.

Of course, the elephant in the room everybody is trying to avoid must be mentioned: Is it a coincidence that Pug Man — the vigilante hero dressed in a homemade pug costume who had been protecting our fair city for the better part of the last year — hasn’t been seen or heard from since the passing of our dear friend here? I don’t like to speculate so I won’t but you do the math, folks. You do the math.

Dramatic pause for effect. At least 10 seconds. Time it. I’ll know.

What else…what else? Oh! He could juggle. That’s something. He knew at least a couple of magic tricks too. He was also extremely proud of the fact that he had never worn a fedora hat or gotten a tattoo. Both those things seem kinda douchey. (Ignore the fact you wear fedoras and have a tattoo, Kevin.) He also could make pretty good chili from scratch.

But…this is all superficial ephemera. It doesn’t begin to scratch the surface, to solve the mystery that was Dave Wilcox. Who was he deep down? What did he think and feel on a deeper level? What dark threads made up the rich tapestry that was his spirit? What dark secrets did he keep from even Dr. Mueller? Besides the Pug Man thing.

Hold for gasps and/or fainting spells.

Well, there’s one thing I know for sure: he truly loved all of you. Even the guy he tried to avoid running into which led to his untimely death. He only ever did things like ask you to lunch or invite you to his awkward baseball-themed birthday parties out of affection. He was pretty goddamn sweet and lovable and you blew it. For shame. You should feel really terrible about this, possibly even holding on to it for a long time. If only you didn’t take him and his unsolicited invitations to hang out and join fantasy sports leagues for granted while he was still here, amongst the living. Now it is too late, he’s already on his way to that big fantasy baseball league in the sky: Heaven.

So goodbye, friend (no air quotes this time). You will be missed, mostly by yourself but us too a little bit, I guess. Rest in peace and so on. In the immortal words of rapper slash actor Nas, “The World Is Yours.”

Put the microphone you’ve been speaking into inside the coffin with me. Kiss my lifeless corpse on the lips. At least 45 seconds. Time it. I’ll know.