My Living Will

 

                Firstly, let’s get one thing straight: I plan on living forever, infinitely, until the end of time, until the collapse of reality.  Why shouldn’t I?  I’m doing pretty swell so far…

… But it is better to be safe than sorry. At least according to my dead Uncle Emmanuel it is.  Lot of good that did him, practiced good safety all his life and then one night he just didn’t wake up.  His heart stopped cold.  He was only eighty-three years young. 

But I do have some demands on the off chance I do happen to die.  I agree that it is selfish to want things of people after you stop living, but I’m on to something here.  I’m Babe-Ruthing that the next big fad in social media is DIY online Living Wills.  No lawyers, no bullshit.  Just update as you go.  Aunt Debbie pisses you off?  Write her out of the will.  She doesn’t deserve any of your…oh wait, a Passover card….from Aunt Debbie?  With a check for a hundred bucks?  

She’s back in the will.  That easy.  

                In the interest of spear-heading innovative trends in internet memes, submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, without further ado, I present unto thee:

                                     The Living Will of Jake Reber

                In the unlikely event of my demise, the first thing you should do is raid my body for all it’s worth.  Donate all the organs, I sure as Hell won’t need them.  All of them, that is except for my intestines.

                My intestines will be used to make Bass strings, which are to be put on my Upright Bass.  I realize that gut strings are traditionally made from sheep intestine, but after a lifetime of variable bowl consistencies ranging from highly loose to diamond-hard and pelletine, I’m sure my intestines will be resilient enough to forge at least a decent ‘G’ or ‘D’ string.  Please shoot for the full set, though.  I have never heard of anyone performing this procedure but I can point you towards Germany or Japan as likely willing candidates.  No country on Earth is more depraved sexually or musically than those guys.  They’ll love it.   

                With my Bass now strung with Jake-gut strings, I will live forever in my music.  I have loved my Bass more than any woman I have ever known, but just like a woman, if I’m dead I won’t be satisfying her.  So just be sure my bass goes to someone who will only play it occasionally, if not regularly.  The strings are never to be changed, but every June 4^th (my birthday) as well as on the anniversary day of my death (hopefully the same day as whenever Tom Waits dies).  Be sure to get it in the studio to record with it, so I can be some kind of weirdo posthumous carnie legend in a couple decades.  

                If I slip into a coma, don’t rule out I might return in some convoluted comic-book rebirth.  Don’t keep me on the feeding tube.  Just pull the plug; I’ll figure something out.  Captain America and Batman both died from getting shot, but they actually just went back in time and managed to fight their way out it.  Neither of those guys needed their bodies to do it so I’m not super-worried about it.  

                Nextly, never under any circumstance hold up traffic for my death.  No funeral procession.  The general population need not to be inconvenienced by some asshole they don’t know/care about dying, and I’m no better than any other asshole.  

                Just burn what’s left of my organ-less body Viking style and put my Bass in casket if you have a funeral.  Be sure to hire a band to play that will make sure to put the ‘fun’ in ‘funeral.’  And get a keg of New Albanian Elector.  Or have it Groucho’s.    

                I do not wish to be buried as I will be dead and have little use for a plot of land.  But if you want to make statue of me, that is fine.  Just don’t make it creepy like those Shriner's statues.  A child and a fez is the worst possible combination of accessories to adorn a statue with.  

               Engraved into the statue will be the following epitaph:  

“If only intelligence was measured by how much obscure music you know...Jake Reber wouldn't have been such a fucking moron.”-Raanan Hershberg

The statue will be paid for by auctioning off all my possessions that aren’t my Bass.  If I don’t amass any more wealth by the time of my death then I don’t mind if it is made of chicken-wire and paper-mâché.  Just make sure to pay the artist and tip well.  

Deactivation of my Facebook account and other online identities will be the responsibility of my next of kin, as I need not be wasting precious internets with that shit.  In case of my return, I will simply create a new identity of ‘Jacob Thomas Emmanuel Reber, Version 2.0.’  Who knows, I may even add third middle name if I feel so inclined.  Depends on how many cybernetic components my body has.  

And in closing, my final wish is to have my likeness dressed as Abe Lincoln to replace the actual portrait of Abe Lincoln on the $5 bill.  He can keep the penny, as well as his $1 coin.  Even if I somehow fulfill my 8^th grade superlative award prediction of, “Most Likely to Become President” and even prove myself to be a good enough one to merit my own portrait on a bill of currency, just give me the fiver as Abe and call it a wash.  

Enjoy your lives!

Jake Reber 

The Best Places in Louisville to Fart

So this list has been bounced across a couple blogs.  But much like it's subject matter, the article just seems to remain funny no matter how long it hangs around.  Because face it – farts are funny. They always will be. Since modern women have finally admitted that they partake and, dare I say, are even fond of this national pastime, we finally live in an epoch of true equality.

We can now all fart in peace and love one another like in all those songs your parents used to listen to. So what are the premier and preferred public areas to unleash anal aromas? Where in the ‘Ville can you get away with a fart frenzy?


#6:

Nachbar: Between the jazz-wailings of VAMP or the nigh-endless loop of Black Sabbath on the jukebox, there is always a commotion at this hangout staple in Germantown .  It’s a safe bet no one will hear a toot out of you.  Not to mention the regularly-fucked plumbing makes for an easy blame.  Or any dog standing about waiting to get beer spilled on it.  Or, my favorite scapegoat is always nearest cute hipster girl in sundress pretending she likes German beer.  

 #5:

 Mid City Mall: If you have needs, the Mid City mall can fulfill them all: 
-Need groceries?  Valu-Market has you covered.
-Read books?  Shelby branch library inside.  More into movies?  They've got a fine theater.  
-Need smelly old clothes?  Try the Nearly New Shop downstairs, across from Jim Cain's Gym.
-Dying to hear some Steely Dan?  The Backdoor always has the hook up, as well as food & drinks. 
-Lonely?  Eat at the Chinese "Super" Buffet.
-Need a laugh?  Comedy Caravan's there for you.
-Need a good laugh?  The lobby has a plethora of brain-dead eccentrics to laugh at.  It functions as the epicenter of the insanity, featuring a colorful cast of clown-shit crazy persons among the finest the Highlands have to offer.  Everyone is too old or far gone to realize if what they hear/smell is of their own creation or your doing.  Perhaps they just figure it's just another of their auditory hallucinations.

If you want your work to be truly appreciated head into the Teen Outpost in the library.  Your butt vapors have to compete against the thick, swampy smell of angst of the high schoolers fixated on the internet.  Circulate that stale air by breaking some wind!  Punish their snarky teenaged judgments with some ripe crop-dusting of the silent but deadly variety!    

#4:

             Heine Bros. Coffee:  Do you know what mixes splendidly with the mellow, earthy, chocolate-like, floral, smokey, citrus & nutty aroma of Heine Brothers' Coffee?  Farts.  Insert obligatory Heine joke here ________________________. 

#3:

Churchill Downs: Churchill Downs is an impeccable blend of trash and panache that makes it oh-so swell to pass gas.  You are probably dressed your best on a date just to gamble like a granny and observe simpletons.  The only food that isn’t a buffet of ribs is nachos and corndogs, which means you’ll be tooting up a storm even before the bugle sounds.

With so many horses and disgruntled, over-worked staffers it's easy to abstain blame for your assy rip.  Plus, with everyone wearing sunglasses it’s nigh-impossible to detect facial affect; your look of shame and everyone else’s look of disgust are virtually indistinguishable.  Always remember that no matter how foul your odiferous expulsion may be, it will never be the most offensive thing to happen at Churchill Downs.  Check out the infield during Derby sometime.

            #2:

Chicken King: Anytime I travel or someone from another country visits, I always get always the same question when I mention I’m from Kentucky: “How’s the fried chicken?” or “Is the KFC better there?”

            Of course not!  The Colonel’s recipe is same worldwide: reconstituted chicken jelly, toenails, avian smegma and nicotine.  Not to mention those legendary eleven herbs and spices. It’s the meat of chickens that lived consuming the meat of other chickens. 

            Any lover of legitimate Louisville fried chicken knows to head down to the corner of Broadway and South Clay Street to the king of chicken: Chicken King.  It takes merely a single taste to realize that you just made the greatest decision of your life.  But you must understand that this decision comes with a highly gaseous consequence. 

The less-than-personable staff of Chicken King stays segregated behind bullet-proof glass, as to protect themselves from not only robberies but also your poots.  That means the dining room essentially becomes a gas-chamber.  Your main concern is offending any patrons, who are already disgruntled if they frequent fast food chicken joints.  Just hold your ground and take pride in your stench; the respect will be returned. 

              #1:

Old Louisville: Simply being outdoors in this neighborhood is a health hazard.  Heavy clouds of poo-gas engulf the entire area, seeping outward towards surrounding areas like syphilis.  Maybe it’s because Old Louisville is purportedly one of the most haunted places in the U.S. of A.  It could be lingering traces of ectoplasmic activity wafting into your nostrils.  Or it could be that the plumbing of 150 year-old houses were never meant to withstand the volume of shit created by four-apartments worth of college students.  Nothing you could produce from your butt could ever come close to the awful stench of this shitty neighborhood. 

The fact that the University of Louisville, duPont Manual High school, and Noe Middle school are in this vicinity is like a metaphor for the educational system.  My advice: wait until the St. James Art fair and fart on a busking musician.  They may not like your tip, but they will appreciate that someone noticed them at all.