Eulogies for Fred Colton

Loyal Readers:

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.”

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10 thoughts on “Eulogies for Fred Colton

  1. God you’re dead funny. I’m envious. Thank you for the follow, I’m definitely thinking of nesting out here in your blog..

  2. Dude. That was painfully funny. And I say this because my jaw is wired shut and you know that ish slurping through don’t make Toth chuckling easy. Man such a gift. Verbal excellence

    Here’s some of what I have written, just random inspiring crap that has hit me the past 2 days

    Writings

    People may not remember what you said, but they will certainly remember the way you made them feel

    If you seek to see how far you have come, do not look at how you feel in the moment. Instead force yourself to look back at 1 year ago and who you were, 2 weeks ago, and how you felt, and 2 days ago. It is in this contrast you will find progress, and within the progress is where the hope lives.

    You may not be who you want to be, but to someone I can guarantee you are who they want to be, so take hope in knowing that your current dead lawn is someone else’s, “grass is greener” award winning landscape

    You’re not in a wheelchair. And if you are, hot damn, get ahold of challenged athletes foundation, get a go fast chair and start racing. You are not a victim of your circumstance, but a champion of adversity meant to thrive and make victims of your circumstance.

    Pounce from the brink of death into life, so that the devils that stepped out and tripped you up will soon cower in fear at the man of influence, power, fire, and desire that they have mistakenly created.

    Layli. “Is that ice pack too cold directly on your face?” Toth. “Isn’t that the point?” Layli. “Gonna give yourself frostbite” Toth. “Look I can’t let myself get soft, I’m an invalid not a pussy! pain is good for me, otherwise I’m gonna get back on the bike and start sweating and be like ‘ew this is icky’

    People ask you what you want to be or do. Instead of becoming “something” find the attributes or items that you bring best to the table then start filling tables. Heck flip a few over while you’re at it, just to let people know you’ve arrived. Worked for Jesus right? I’m sure the camel hair whip didn’t hurt his case so bring one of those just in case

    I’m an AmeriCAN not an AmeriCANT so once I get better I’m gonna go sweat on some stuff, leave some stains while makin some gains, maybe set up some democratic voting booths and topple some dictators while I’m at it. Oil…nom nom nom

    >

    1. Thanks bud, and this is some legendary stuff, man. You’ve got the orator’s/scribbler’s gift and an unfailingly inspiring way of looking at things. Love the ice pack one. Gotta keep tasting the pain! Here I go, off into the green grass–keep thriving, sir.

  3. Readers:

    Mr. Colton passed away this afternoon. He would like to assure you that he read all of your comments but lost basic motor skills before he was able to type any responses to them. That being said, he said he’s sorry for you because no blog could ever take this one’s place. Enjoy your boring lives.

    Sincerely,

    Kim Mi-Yun,

    Secretary/Typist/Masseuse/Special Assistant to Mr. Colton,

    Colton International Group

  4. Fred, you dirty bastard. You followed my goddamn, pieceofshit blog less than a month ago, and of course I had to come and check you out. I mean, why the hell else would you follow unless you wanted me to follow you? I was right about this, and it was refreshing for a change. Most people act like they follow my pieceofshit blog because they care about my pieceofshit life, but not you. You brazenly stood up and said, “ME! IT’S ALL ABOUT ME!”

    The more I read about you, the more repulsed I was. Eventually my repulsion turned into fascination, and fascination turned into love. It was inevitable that obsession would follow.

    That’s right, Fred. I said I love you! I told my husband I was leaving. I kissed the kids goodbye. I packed my miserable few belongings into an aging suitcase, and I bought a one-way ticket for Seoul. I’m sitting here in Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport having endured a strip-search because the TSA guys found the vial of blood I had prepared to offer you in lieu of an engagement ring. They made me sit in a dirty little broom closet of an office with nothing to keep me company but a stale cup of coffee and the whirring of a fan for what seemed like days, but apparently “having a crazy look in your eyes” isn’t enough reason to bar someone from international travel. They’re still watching me, though. They think I don’t see them, but I do.

    And then I read about your impending death, and I don’t know if I can handle it. What am I going to do without you, Fred? The least you could have done is waited around long enough to pass a few of your STDs to me. Maybe I could have followed you to the grave. To make matters even worse I find out that even now you act as though I don’t exist, preferring instead to beg for sisterly-like affection from some tart named Kyung-min.

    I’m coming, Fred, and if you’re not dead when I get there, you’ll wish you were.

  5. We’ve all come to terms with the fact that you are indeed a sick puppy, but I don’t know how many of us expected STDs, seeing how we all came to realize that at least some of your best work is just a little too over the top.
    And did you ever get a chance to run some really scrawny Korean chick off the side of the road?
    I mean, if I’m going to knock back a cold one in your honor after thirty-six years of sobriety, I wanna know if it’s worth it.

    If I don’t hear back from you on that, I’ll check back next week.

    Harris

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