Ferd Week: Ferd on The End

Ferd Week concludes with a comment left by Ferd, March, 2013,

Dear friends,

It is now apparent that our common language lacks a sufficient number of adjectives, both pejorative and pleasant, to describe me, my writing, my ‘humor’, my dog and the crux of this beast who observes you. I admit to be gasping for gibes at this point; I am spent, my cruelest, most irritating, vulgar aphorisms having already been laid before you for so little gain.

There is nothing left to do than come clean. I can’t take it. I am bereft. To think that the erudite, worldly and wise among you can so easily find fault with me is too much to bear. I have decided to end it all today. My plan is this: open a can of aged anchovies and a handle of Southern Comfort, sit back and blend into my red leather chair. After this final act, absent divine intervention that may indeed occur since our Lord is unlikely to want me this early, you shall all be rid of me forever. Guilt will creep slowly into your middling minds when you commence to understand the genius you have destroyed, but so be it. Your remarks, slings and arrows have fatally flattened me. Adieu

PS. Contributions to the ongoing upkeep and maintenance of the Swan Bar in Lambertville New Jersey in lieu of flowers are requested.

And soon after:

Dear mortals,

He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust. In the event Emily is my neighbor here. Who knew? Well, I am not Phoenix nor am I a coward. The deed is done. My corporeal embodiment ist Kaput. (There are hoards of [...] here).

Having an eternity on my hands, I have time to write. I have good news and bad. First the good. For all of you living south of say, Harrisburg, you are golden. Nothing to worry about. Live it up. You’ve got everything to live for and everything to die for. Wow.

Now the bad. For we (formerly) lucky few in a small corner of New England, we proper priests of True Prep, repent! Do good deeds! Feed the poor! Eat dinner with the help! For if you do not lead a good and holy life, the afterlife that awaits you is more horrible that even Mr. Alighieri imagined.

As it turns out, Hell is the Hattiesburg Country Club, Hattiesburg, Mississippi. (Now I know why my Grandmother referred to Hades as “down there”). And let me tell you, Satan was never an Angel. He bears (now upon current reflection) an unremarkable resemblance to Colonel Sanders. And He is so genial, gentlemanly and, what was that word – gracious. Days are spent playing golf and Bridge. All the men wear the latest Peter Millar golf attire and smoke cigars. The ladies are dressed to the nines and wear make up as though applied with a gardening spade. Each day is another grinding groundhog of a day, replete with buckets of Bourbon, Ritz Crackers with Cheese Whip, genteel conversation about relatives, SEC Football and homes in Aspen. Everyone drives Cadillacs.

I want to die, but well, that is no longer an option. Muffy’s Southern faithful no doubt will find a good comeuppance in this (maybe they knew all along this was to be my fate). By the way, I should mention that there are indeed Rings down here. The cruelest stage is apparently reserved for sycophants like my Uncle whose attempts at mimicry is so flaccid as to embarrass. Uncle, give it up lest ye suffer exceptionally.

So it is for me now. There are rumors that Heaven is a small western corner of Orr’s Island, Maine, but I will never know. When you pass through the pearly gates, please sent me a text with a picture, won’t you.

Yours in eternal boredom,

Good Ole’ Ferd