In real life my death year was foretold to be 2029. However, the clairvoyant did not mention how I will go.
So, with a little help from my imagination (and cherry whiskey) I have been able to piece together the events of my oh-so-timely demise.
Below is the heroic speech I will give to my fellow enslaved humans just before we go to war against giant radioactive bumblebees and Russian robot attack bears in what will become known as “The Battle of D.C.”
Did I mention I end up changing my name to Kumquat Ferrari?
Kumquat Ferrari’s speech:
I know you’re all feeling scared right now at the prospect of facing robotic bears and giant radioactive bees.
I’ve pooped my pants at least three times already this morning, and not just because all we have to eat is that rotten moss stew.
Some of us will not survive this day—I’m talking about you, Roger!
I know some have said this battle is un-winnable.
Some have questioned how they could follow a man named “Kumquat Ferrari.”
Others still have wondered why I keep sleeping with their wives.
To them, I say, you will be the first to go into battle.
I know it hasn’t been easy these last few years, toiling in the honey mines and changing the fuses on the bear-bots.
Whose idea was it to locate the fuse box in that orifice? Am I right?
Roger knows what I’m talkin bout.
C’mon, Roger, don’t be like that. I was just kidding about you not living to see tomorrow.
I understand the urge to surrender to the bees and the bears and leave the rest of us holding the proverbial bag. (And I don’t mean Roger’s wife.)
Hell, up until about 15 minutes ago, I was planning to do the same.
But then I looked at all of your innocent, trusting faces and realized that I’m just not cut out for manual labor any more.
We gotta win this one because my back is killing me.
My only regret is that President Sarah Palin couldn’t be here to witness this battle.
While I did not vote for her, I did think of her fondly when I pleasured myself often and angrily.
I’m sure some of you will remember she was taken from us far too soon when she mistook a toaster for a mechanical hand warmer.
The Secret Service tried to stop her but she insisted, yelling something about a maverick not needing any gosh darn directions on how to use no liberal dry-a-ma-jig.
I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you, the lasers coming out of those bears’ mouths are about 12,000 degrees.
Old Roger over there just looked at one for about a second and it scorched off his eyebrows.
And you don’t even want to know what their claw missiles can do.
Let’s just say Roger’s newest hobby rhymes with “colostomy.”
And don’t even get me started on the bees.
Although there is some good news for those of you allergic to bee stings because the stingers are so goddam big you’ll die either way.
I, uh, had written up this big kick-ass plan on how to defeat the bears and the bees by dressing up like lady bees and girl bears, waiting until they asked us out on dates and then stabbing them in their hearts during dessert, but Roger over there left the plans at his mom’s house. Way to go, Roger!
Anyway, we really didn’t have the money or materials to do more than three or four costumes anyway so it probably wouldn’t have worked.
So, here’s what we’re going to do: Me and my trusty steed Steve the hippopotamus, here, are gonna ride out to meet them on the battlefield.
When I get close enough I’m going to start kicking them in their bear and bee balls, and when they double over in pain I’m gonna conk ’em over their big stupid heads with this big hard hammer.
You pussies do whatever you think is best and I’ll meet you on the other side.