This is not me. It is Robert Young from 1957. Our resemblance to each other is eerie.
My name is Carl Young, not to be confused by the realtor extraordinaire from the southwest suburbs with the same name. No worries, it happens all the time. In college, one weirdo asked if I was related to some famous psychiatrist. I walked on. If anything, a lot of people seem to think I look like a young Robert Young. It leads me to wonder, will I look like the old Robert Young as I get older?
“In hindsight, I could have had more empathy. History tends to be kinder to those.”
War is hell. Christmas in Nazi Germany, 1941 was proof of that. Ask Dean Von Gundermann. He was twenty-five years old, and a good twenty-five years ahead of his time. He was a misplaced flower child stuck in an oppressive Hitler regime. He would have certainly flourished following around the Grateful Dead on the west coast of America. He would have looked absolutely adorable with long flowing ebony hair, wearing a dashiki or Nehru jacket. Perhaps this would be an appropriate time to start anew as I take a very cold shower.
“Coming back to life is greatly overrated. By overrated, I mean, it’s like dirty ass hairs, like a stiff paintbrush.”
It was Christmas Day, 2010. One year had passed since the expiration of Christmas Cop. He was molested awake by his very own stench. Thick make up collapsed atop his rapidly decaying face. Maggots, worms, and every creature in-between feasted on his body. It was gross, and oh my sweet dear Lord, that unbearable hoobastank®. He tried to cry out, and was greeted with profound silence. This sucked. He tried to move. He was met with the equivalence of silence for motion.
“Now that I’m dead, I can say this without remorse, I love you, man.”
As sure as Christmas Cop was born on Christmas Day, he died on Christmas Day, 2009 at the tender age of 71. Of course, his death was untimely, in that he was running six-and-a-half hours late. He overslept; perhaps, he just slept. You see, retirement further messed up his already horrible sense of time. He jumped in the shower, frisked himself with soap, jumped out of the shower, slipped, banged his head on the corner of the sink, suffered a severe concussion, didn’t know it, got into his car in the garage, thought about starting up the car, but instead, fell asleep behind the wheel for the very last time. His corpse was not discovered until Valentine’s Day. If there’s one thing to be learned, it is this…
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