Leo's service.

Alright, so like I said, I finally had the chance to mourn the dude. I ain't need to talk about it; you ain't interested. Long and short of it is that I finally got a proper eulogy together, and I gave it on Sunday, down there on the #1 fairway, with all Leo's dudes in attendance, plus some guys from the handicap trials, and his mom, Dolores (Doris? Sorry).

Here is the text of my eulogy. It was hard. Man, it is a stone fuck to put a cadaver into the future with your words. I didn't like any part of it.

LEO FONTANETTE
A EULOGY BY RAY SMUCKLES

- - -

Leo's family came from Italy, in 1971. He was one. Their name was Fontanettini then, on the papers. Yes, his family was Italian. One imagines large dinners and the huge faces of friends, of the old country. Garlic bread. Fresh salami from the butcher. Grandma sneaks you another piece while she is cooking her famous Salami e Bruschetta.

Leo was a lot of fun, and he knew how much he wanted to eat, always. I mean, I ain't gonna count calories, but the dude played it bad sometimes. Damn.

Okay, I want to say some fun times I had with Leo. Fun times we had. There was that time in Vegas, with the modified automatic rifles at the outdoor shooting range. For a dude who swore by American cars, I have never seen a man blow so many holes in his rented PT Cruiser. I mean, he actually got inside and shot the interior of the car, then popped the hood and shot the engine bay at least fifty times. We weren't even supposed to take the rifles off the range, but as he walked outta the stalls he just threw his wallet on the ground and said, "Charge me. Like I give a shit." That was classic Leo. The dude was sure about things. I didn't edit that.

In Leo's memory we have a message: love life while we have it. Do what you want. I wish every child across this land had Leo's bold approach; maybe then we would already be done in Iraq.

But enough of that. Temper your approach to life with a sensibility about calories. Calories are the reason that my friend Leo isn't with us today. Damn you, Leo. Damn you for makin' me wait 'til I get to see you again.

Thank you, everyone.

- - -

I'm just bloggin', you know?

Man, I am doin' this right. I got a mimosa all fresh by my side, some chubby Marvin Gaye on the speakers, and even a little snack bowl of peanuts and cashews. My fingers are just flutterin' over the keys as I type this. The window's open, and a cool breeze is helpin' me relax on this stone cold mellowed day. I am bloggin' in real-time; I wish you could read this word for word as I write it, my pacing is so smooth and even. Daaamn, I wonder what idea I will come up with to blog about?

Oh, crap. That's right. Leo from the Caddy dealership just died. Man, I keep meanin' to set aside proper time to mourn the dude, but I been real busy lately. It's like, I know I got to mourn my boy Leo, and I better do it before services on Sunday, 'cause I got to give a real proper eulogy and people are gonna be able to tell if I ain't mourned yet. If I don't, my speech will be filled with cliches and lame jokes about the "big Beach Boys reunion tour in the sky, Leo all in his white shorts and favorite red Hawaii-print shirt, double-fisting Herradura margaritas." You don't say something like that if you have class. No, I got to dig down deep and wonder about the thin line between bein' alive and bein' a dead body.

Anyhow, let me blog about somethin' else. Did you know that I haven't seen the Simpsons in over two years? It's like, I like that show, and I always enjoy it, but for some reason it stopped bein' a part of my routine. I wonder what replaced it? What if...what if it was bloggin'? Is that what I do with my spare time now? I been doin' this blog for over two years...damn, that's it! I'm gonna cut out this damn blog entry right now and go watch Simpsons. I hope it's that one where somebody tries to steal that janitor dude's grease and he gets all wigged out.

What in the damn hell is going on around here?

Yeah, so last I posted, I was hosting ENORMOUS BY RAY SMUCKLES on Friday. Huge layout for food and bev, incredible entertainment, the works. I even planned it a few days before usual, so people could clear their calendars.

Not a damn single person showed up. I had the roaming searchlights in the sky, the text messagin', the phone tree, the email service announcements, the works. Everybody with a heartbeat and one functioning iris knew about this party.

The bartender stood there, chewin' on his nails. The udon guy, Fukuya, got pissed as batch after batch of his six-meter noodles got overcooked and mushy. He cussed real often and threw the ruined food directly onto the ground out in front of his little stand. And yeah, you guessed it, we basically tossed about two grand worth of deep-fried lobster tails.

I had figured that people would be millin' and chillin' large without my presence, so I didn't have the vixens wheel me in on my gurney until about 11. Imagine my confusion as they pushed me around the empty grounds, the Cristal IV fully patched into my arm. At first I thought I was just hallucinatin' from the booze, but then I realized that the vixens were kind of acting weird, and I could tell they were not down with pushing a rich guy around his empty party on a gurney. I will be honest with you: I felt WAY awkward.

Long story short, we threw away much food later that night, and I got like no idea where everybody was. Not even my bros showed, my tight crew like Beef and T. Can you believe I actually spent some time around 2am trying to use Google to see why my party sucked?

Weird, doggs. I'm feelin' weird about all this. What in the hell?