Thursday, September 8, 2011

Rememberance to the tenth power = immortality

Damn, I guess I am gonna die.

There's gotta be that one great beautiful dark twisted death out there that is just the perfect way to crystallize your corpse in the minds of millions worldwide. Fuck that, billions worldwide. Way to fucking go, this guy.

But, since that idea's taken, (not, you know, the feeling of smoldering yourself and boiling, melting, oh my God that sounds awful) I'll have to come up with something else.

You know who's really memorable? Forrest Gump. I mean, shit, if I had met Gump during one of his numerous (mis)adventures, I would definitely not forget the guy. In a day and age where celebrities die every day and become distant memories within weeks, you have to make contact with people in order to cement yourself in their memory.

And as good of a name as Eliot Sill is, I need something legendary. I'm thinking Kirken Waltsh. That's good. It sounds like a thing, and less of a name. You guys will all Kirken Waltsh one day. Middle name? C-something. Kirken C. Waltsh. 

I'm gonna meet a ton of people. And I'm gonna kick all their asses, not literally, but in a that-guy-just-blew-my-mind type of way.

Step one: Become a teacher.

You know how every one has that one teacher they will absolutely never forget? That's gonna be me. I'm gonna teach English, a subject every one has to take, and I'm going to be the best thing that's hit words since the semi-colon. First off, I'll speak completely in rhyme, and hire TA's to pencil-beat or beatbox (for advanced level TA's) all class long, with my main points summarized in refrains that, picture it, by the end of the lecture the whole class is singing as my army of hype men. Yes. That'll be hard to forget.

Oh, and screw not cussing. This teacher's new-school.

This is a limited time offer to America's youth. I've only got between four and six years to blow getting my name out there before the task has been completed and I quit fucking teaching. The seeds of my face have been planted in the youth. They will tell their parents, their friends, and their children about Mr. Waltsh. My network of knownness will grow, spreading across the body of the country like blood from a gunwound. Have I lost you yet? Good. Follow, follow.

Step two: Own land, and lord it.

This could take anywhere from two to 20 years, depending on how long I feel like running with it. I want a lot of places owned by me, rented out to people. I will stress the lord moreso than the land, trying to paint a picture of myself as a high-society official. Speaking of which, I will implement a genius nugget of landowning policy: 50 bucks off your monthly rent if you hang a portrait of me somewhere in your home. If you're too egotistical to save this money, fine, pay me. Discounts go up, depending on where you place the portrait, for instance, if I walk into your apartment and see my stoic face staring back at me with some tastefully dramatic lighting drawing proper respectful attention to me, then bam, it's like: what are you going to spend your fresh $200 on?

I get real close with my tenants. After all, they have to think I'm living room portrait worthy. I build a real sense of community with my giant, nicely kept playplace in the middle of my complex, coupled with a bar (which is severely cheap; I do not need to profit monetarily from this, prestige is my currency).

Step three: Invent a new facial expression.

Yes, this is where my plot turns from golden to platinum. I will be everywhere wearing this thing. Eye-contacting as many passersby as is manageable.

When I master this, you will walk by me, and be
struck by someone with depression, hope and
a Nike swoosh for a mouth.
 
Was he laughing, yawning or eating an imaginary triple-cheeseburger?

 Why did that guy look like a mixture of a bird and an
old lady?

 
This, when mastered, will look unquestionably like there
is a black hole somewhere below the back of my brain
that I am using everything I've got to prevent from sucking
my entire body into.

Okay so this is really hard ... but I've worked up a few prototypes. I have, basically, all my spare time from graduation until I'm done landlording to master these. Just giving you some ideas. 

These interactions will be merely milliseconds in length, and will be enough to bury the image of my face deep in the unconsciouses of millions. But when recalled, they'll remember me, in a deja vu sort of way and think: "where have I seen that face before?"

Step four: Mass produce t-shirts of me.
On the front, nothing. On the back? As big as can allow, me, giving the face, and throwing a fierce thumbs-up. Underneath it in excited, Dr. Tinycat font text: "WALTSH HAS YOUR BACK;"

Yeah, the semi-colon is vital here. Peculiarity, memorability, fueled by originality. Sometimes originality is trying to put a square peg in no hole at all, but just letting it lie there and saying "that's where my peg is, you see?"

I will peddle these shirts, give them out for free, whatever. They will be plentiful and they will be worn, people will see the face, people will recognize the face, people will recognize their landlord, their teacher. I am growing, in populus, and in longevity.

Step five: Make small talk with the President at a very opportune time.

Big speech, millions watching, I charge the stage, with an undeniable smile. The President, definitely male by this point, is calm, he knows I mean no harm.

Me: "Hey, you're doing great!"
He: "Ha, well, thank you, can I help you?"
Me: "Yeah, you should really give this a look."
(Hands item)
He: "What's this?"
Me: "I just finished that book, it's really good, but I think you'd like it more."
He: "No reason I can't give it a look."
Me: "Exactly. Dinner later?"
He: "Busy."
Me: "Fair. Security?"
He: "I can call."
Me: "That'd be great."

Step six: Run for City Clerk somewhere...

...and spend billions on the campaign. Where is all this money coming from? Most, at this point from campaign funders, but also I will have money from landowning, and t-shirt sales. Also donations. I will be wealthy. I just will.

Anyway, my campaign will rival the President's. Only I will be running for City Clerk. Which isn't capitalized, but I will bring status to the office to the point of capitalization. I will tour the country, telling people across America to "really pressure the citizens of Peosta, Iowa, to vote me for City Clerk."

If the other guy gets a vote I swear to fucking god.

Step seven: Offer an infamous commencement speech

My popularity will be high by this point, and I must clinch status atop society by telling college kids what their future holds. 

Probably University of Illinois. I will start this speech by complaining about my toothache. How after all the preparation I put into the speech I have this stupid bloody toothache. This whining goes on for twelve minutes, and includes lots of sighing, some groaning, one minute of fighting an urge to cry. I may have this toothache, I suppose, but I am planning on this being a lie. Just when things are getting unbearable, and action is an instant from being taken, I spring into freestyle rap. I leap off the stage over to my drum set, microphone in hand, and rap to my own beat about how life is like a toothache, and so forth. 

By the end, the crowd can't fucking believe shit. I have solved all of their futures. All of their futures rhyme and flow magnificently. This makes CNN. Kirken Waltsh would be knighted if we lived in England. Hell, I might go over there and ask — worth a shot, right?

Step eight: Go overseas with the sole purpose of throwing kickass parties

I will sell everything I have, reputation stolid in America, and move to Europe.

I will throw the biggest, most lavish, most inclusive, and crunkest parties on the planet. Kirken Waltsh; party extraordinaire. Everyone's invited. Everyone's doing substances. Everyone's having the time of their lives. Party's status as a word will be put in jeopardy, as they will start referring to these large gatherings — and large gatherings everywhere — as Waltshes. Like a Waltz, but not so pretentious.

These will be my glory years.

Step nine: Advertise

I come back to America. Ready to rake in the millions.

A la The Most Interesting in the World, I will have advertise a sensible product. Maybe Coca-Cola, maybe Foster's beer, maybe Hardee's, maybe Tommy Hilfiger clothing. I will be on televisions everywhere, or computers by that point, if that's how life is then. 

Step ten: End it like no one else

My death, shall be boring. But, as usual, I will make the situation more interesting. Famous last words, ones that fit the moment. I shall have none of that, but what I will have is some milk, please. As I lay on my death bed, I will ask that I be placed in a tub and given milk to drink. All the milk I can ask for. I shall drink this creamy white utterance down like it is the kingdom of heaven itself, and go out completing the milk gallon challenge. I die before I throw up. Or I die, then throw up, but that doesn't count. Because I'm dead. My last words will be, "milk is how I'm going to die." And I bet NO ONE has exited on that line before.

It's all about being different.

Life isn't like a box of chocolates. It's like a box of pinless grenades. No matter what you pick, you and those around you are going to die. But it's not what you get, it's in what situation you choose to open the box.

--Eliot Sill

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