It is with a heavy heart that I must report this will be the last update on Fredcolton.com, The #1 Blog of All Time. The reason? I’m dying. I’m typing this on my deathbed right now, actually. Yes, a little hospital room in Seoul is where the sands will run out for your boy Fred.
Why is this? Well, the consequences of living the high life. You all remember the story of how I moved to Korea and became a fabulously wealthy titan and captain of industry, a CEO with his very own 100-story skyscraper and a net worth that, when converted to large bills and stacked, could impale the goddamn moon. It all went to my head. I splashed my cash on all the trappings of a made man: fitted suits and diamond cufflinks and silk ties, which I donned during those endless nights in Gangnam’s Club Octagon with KPop stars, puffing hand-rolled cigars and sneering while I doused the peasantry on the dance floor with champagne bottles.
All the fast living and general douchebaggery officially caught up to me this afternoon. I dropped in for a routine checkup and discovered that not only do I have late-stage inoperable lung cancer, but my liver is about to burst, unleashing a tsunami of toxins into my bloodstream. Then there’s the alphabet soup of STDs I just tested positive for. This is less than ideal. I always knew the heavy hammer of karma would come back to bitch slap me, but not this hard. Not this soon. The doctor told me I’d screwed up, that even a diet of battery acid and jet fuel would have been healthier. He said I might as well just stay right here in the hospital, because I’d be dead in about three hours, or less time than it takes to watch Titanic all the way through.
So now I’m in a backless hospital gown (what you’ll most likely be wearing when you die) hooked up to beeping machines that seem annoyed I’m still alive, while a nurse I just begged for intimacy (hey, wouldn’t you want it one more time if you knew you had only a few thousand seconds left on the clock?) peeks in every ten minutes to see if I’ve kicked it yet. Come on, Kyung-min. At least a cheek peck. No? OK. A thoroughly humbling way to go out, being denied a cheek peck. Here I am, alone at the end. Not even Kim Mi-yun, my loyal twenty-two year-old masseuse/secretary/typist/assistant/skirt-wearer has dropped by to see me off.
So, being that I could use a quick little pick-me-up before the curtains drop and my star burns out forever, I’ve decided to leak the news of my death early, so I can pull a little Tom Sawyer maneuver and see what my own funeral would be like. Because like everything else nowadays, the eulogies have moved into the digital realm. Even if people won’t bother showing up to your wake they’ll still post a glowing tribute to you on your Facebook wall that you’ll never get to read anyway. Well, I want to read them. What better way to go out that to be absolutely inundated with pure, uncut validation and affirmation? I just had a hospital orderly call my parents in the States and say I’d just passed. I rub my hands and refresh my browser. Here are the incoming posts:
“Fred, heard you died. I guess dreams do come true. Thank God and good riddance.”
What? Well I guess you don’t make it to the mountaintop without acquiring a few busloads of haters.
“Fred, I heard you just died and it made me so happy I rose up from my wheelchair for the first time in years and danced a jig. I hate you so much that the mere news of your death CURED MY PARALYSIS.”
Damn. OK, let’s keep going. There’s got to be something good on here.
“If I had a time machine that I could only use once, I would use it to stop you, not Hitler, from being born.”
Well to be fair, between all the Instagram selfies of me in the VIP section, or me sunning on my yacht next to a bevy of nude models while flipping off the camera…I was kind of a prick down the home stretch of my life (but to be even fairer, I had no idea it was the home stretch! I didn’t have time for a third-act crisis of conscience followed by a character development montage).
“You smug asshole. Now that you’re dead, I can die happy. I’ve been fighting cancer for years, and your death was literally all I was waiting for before I gave up, you goddamn prick.”
“I hope you’re not completely dead yet when they shove you in the oven and start to cremate you.”
“Wait, Fred Colton died? Oh my God!!! Yes!…Anyone know what hospital? I want to drop by and just make sure. Bringing a pillow to smother him just in case.”
“I converted to witchcraft just so I could learn how to cast spells and mix up potions that would kill you. After dismembering dozens of bats and raccoons, my sorcery has paid off. Best day of my life. Now, time to covert back to Catholicism.”
“Anyway know where his tombstone is gunna be? I just chugged a 12er of Heineken in celebration and I wanna go piss on it.”
“Fred, we had a beer together once, all you did was talk about yourself. I hope that beer was the one that pushed your liver past its breaking point.”
“Hope you packed sunscreen. Heard Hell’s hot.”