O, I die, Horatio!
I realize you came to this site today expecting to be cheered up with crazy stories and off-the-wall humor, but I have grave news for all of you. I have been struck down in my prime at the young age of 25 by a terrible illness. I am not asking for your pity, but only your friendship as I go through this last stage of my impending demise. This is not easy for me to do, but with your support I think I have the courage to look death right in the face in kick him in the crotch. For this, I thank you.
I know right now your mind is racing with questions like, "How could God let this happen?" I, too, went through the same phase this morning, thinking back to when I was happy and young, my plump cheeks flushed with health. I would frolic all day long in my lederhosen, sprinting through fields of jasmine, fishing with my pet hound dog in the babbling brooks of Dingly Dell, and sitting on one of Old Man Willow's branches watching the setting sun's golden rays. Then one day while I was carelessly chasing butterflies in a dandelion grove, I suddenly let out a violent sneeze. It was as if all time had stopped. I looked down at my snot-covered hand in dismay as the butterflies fled and willo-the-wisps fled, sensing my infection. The sneeze was an evil omen, a foreshadowing that my days of joy and mirth were at an end. I ran as hard as I could back to the farmhouse as the sky blackened, flowers withered, and a blizzard of snow began to fall. I took to my bed, and here I remain.
My illness does not make me special. I am not a saint or somebody to be admired or idolized. I am simply a brave soul who is stoically suffering a terrible malady, reaching for the light with all the might my tiny little heart can muster. I know by now it must be very hard to read this article because your eyes are overflowing with tears and shorting out your keyboard, but you must stay strong for me. Years from now when the children hold candlelight vigils in my honor and cry little sweet children tears, know that for each small tear that drops on this earth, a plum tree will grow in that place, and maybe there will be enough plum trees to feed the hungry nation of Africa. I have seen this in a feverish dream while passed out in my chicken soup as a daytime soap opera featuring two people making out played in the background. I really like plums.
I can already hear you crying at home and saying, "Don't give up, Mr. Frodo!" I don't see this as giving up; I see it as letting go. This sickness has made my life unbearable. I can no longer keep up the charade of high spirits for visitors and well-wishers. I know none of you are willing to let me vanish into the inky gulf of nothingness, but I have to do what's best for me. That's why I'm enlisting the aid of Dr. Jack Kevorkian to speed up the process of my death. I have always been supportive of assisted suicide if the cause was just, and in my case I think it is. I used to be able to slam dunk a basketball (if it was one of those tiny kids hoops), but now I have trouble putting on my shorts and just walking around with a sock on my penis. This is no way to live.
Dr. Jack has not returned my request for his assistance yet, but I made of tape of myself lying on my couch, crying, to convince him that I needed relief. I also sent him one of those tasty Hickory Farms food baskets with the sausage and various cheeses. I fear that without him I am doomed to a slow and painful passing, or will have to take matters into my own hand and eat a whole bottle of Flintstones vitamins. I also made a tape for my future son since I will not be around to see him. I'm not sure who is carrying my baby at the moment, but I'm sure one of the few ladies that I've encountered on spring break has a tiny Frolixo inside her. Unfortunately, I didn't have enough tape and didn't want to write over a bootlegged copy of "Mama's Family", so I will just record the message for my future son here on the Internet for a permanent record.
For my son, Frolixo Jr:
Clean your room! Hahaha, no really clean up your crap. As a Paskiewicz, you need to have respect for your elders. Please listen to your mother and behave, but if she finds another man like the slutty harlot she is, then do everything in your power to make his life a living hell like in the movie "Problem Child". Get your mother to rent it for you and study the pranks well. Also check out "The Parent Trap", and "Home Alone" for more ways to drive the new daddy away with harmful tomfoolery. Know that I will always be by your side through your hardships, literally. After my death, my tormented soul will be in ghost form and I will stack chairs and possess your clown doll to let you know I'm still here and refuse to leave. You should rent "Ghost Dad" with Bill Cosby to help understand that I will be there to love you, and that if your mother brings in a priest to get rid of me, I have no choice but to become a malevolent spirit and toss him out a window and down a flight of stone steps. So stay in school, don't do drugs, and don't touch my stereo you little bastard. I love you, Frolixo Jr. Peace out.
Now that I have taken care of that, the only order of business I have left is to make out my will so as to avoid any squabbles over my estate. This was not an easy thing for me to do, as I have a lot of friends and family that I want to thank for being so good to me. I admit that I don't have a lot to give away, so for those who I don't mention in my will, please know that my love and outrageous unpaid bills will always be there for you.
Frolixo's Last Will and Testament:
To my beloved fiancée: All of the furniture, electronics, snacks in the pantry, all my books, and my car. All this is yours provided you wear a locket with my picture around your neck at all times and burn incense over my shrine three times a day. Also do not speak or fraternize with other men. If these provisions are not met, all my property will be handed over to the state of Maine.
To my webmaster, Richard "Three Thumbs" Kyanka: All of my "What If" Marvel comic books, my Peter Frampton record collection, and my semen encrusted mouse to remember me by and eventually put on display in the Internet Hall of Fame.
To my Uncle Cecil: My .22 rifle and my computer, only provided that my computer is shot with the rifle and then buried with my corpse.
To the Island of Guam: My collection of pogs. You can divide this among your people as you see fit.
To Steve Perry of Journey: One million dollars.
To Zackery "Hot Lunch" Parsons: My GI Joe helicopter (seats missing), and a variety of non-treatable STDs.
If this is our last goodbye then let it be a sweet one. I know we have had our troubles, like the time I used a huge .gif file of a rotating squirrel, causing all 56k users to suffer strokes and mild nausea, but I would like to think we had good times as well. Remember when we left the city, giggling like children to go spend the weekend on the beach house, drinking champagne and eating fresh crab from the sea? Me neither, but you can see what I'm getting at. Since the time I let everybody I've ever known or come into contact with know about my pending death, a foundation has been made to help find a cure for my illness, helping others after I am gone. It's called "Save the Frolixo Foundation", and I'm honored to have my namesake likened to such a just cause. If you would like to donate money to the foundation, please send me an e-mail and I will give you the Paypal information.
Well, this is it. I'm leaving this material plane now and you shan’t ever see me again. If there is a heaven and roads really are paved out of gold, then I'll be busy chipping away at it with a pickaxe, but promise to save a couple of bricks for you. Don't cry for me Argentina, I have never left you. We shall be together soon my dear friends.
(Editor's note: About a half hour after posting this article my cold medicine started to kick in and it looks like I'm going to pull through. I still have a runny nose but it's getting a lot better and my throat has stopped hurting. The miracles of modern science never cease to amaze me. I want to thank you all for supporting me during this crisis and sending me all the cards and care packages. Sleep well knowing that I will use the funds from the Save the Frolixo Foundation for noble means like trying to find a cure for the common cold and fixing my muffler. And maybe get a new video game too because I'm tired of my old ones. Thanks everybody!)
O, I HAY! Hentai game review Horatio!
Zack "Geist Editor" Parsons here with a brand new Hentai Game Review of the hot and completely child-friendly title "Virgin Roster.
Kengo's character single-handedly demonstrates that if Japan has mastered one thing in video games it's the anti-hero. If Kengo were an American anti-hero he would have to include something redeeming about his character, or at least something to allow his audience to sympathize with him. For example, if Kengo were in an American game, his parents might have been murdered by virgins or he only would rape virgins if they were serious criminals. Sort of like a vigilante crime deflowerer. The Japanese have no such reservations about making the protagonist unrepentantly evil. Kengo rapes girls, older women, beats them all, drugs them, ties them up, and even threatens to kill them. He's a real sweet-talker that way.
Japan's economy may very well depend on you reading this article! Help save Tokyo you filthy roundeye!