R.I.P. Rosicky Jones, by Rosicky Jones

Rosicky Jones passed away yesterday from complications following his hangnail-removal surgery.  The complications actually had nothing to do with the surgery.  Rosicky, who routinely made jokes at inopportune times, thought it would be a good idea to drop a terrorist joke on account of his Bin Laden-level beard.  As he laughed at his own joke, a nurse, recently back from a stint in Afghanistan, took Rosicky out with a move known in medical circles as “The Kevorkian.” She immobilized him with a stethoscope and, using a towel clamp, removed his trachea with surgical precision.

At Rosicky’s bedside were his brothers, two of the four women he had sex with during his life, a bill collector, a hooker he’d befriended in the waiting room, and the 12-year-old Asian kid that writes the majority of his columns.

At present, heavy interest revolves around his meager belongings.  No one is claiming his tattered books, clothes, or tatters.  In related news, there will be a post-funeral rummage sale back at the house. Not his house of course, because he was a vagrant, but his parents’ house.  His liabilities greatly exceeded his earnings.  He had no bank account since he wisely kept all his money in balled-up socks in the trunk of his car.  We are also donating his ’98 Blazer to the Chevy museum, because there is no way that thing should be running.  It has no windshield wipers, one side mirror, and it reeks of Axe body spray.  Rosicky in his silly little battles against “the man” decided he would perform all the mechanical work on the car himself.  And God bless him if he didn’t use the hell outta Youtube’s self-help vids to jimmy-rig that car into running.  Speaking of God, I know you exist, so please show Rosicky Jones and his antipathy towards you some leniency.

Rosicky died having never been published or having gained any legitimate literary acclaim whatsoever.  His extensive library of unpublished work leaves a lot to be desired.  If calculations are correct, he died with seven unfinished literary projects.  His only completed work was an incredibly immature book enumerating his rules on women and dating.  In homage to my dear friend I would like to read an excerpt from his magnum opus.

Rule # 5: Guys stupidly fall in love with the first girl that sleeps with them.  Once she has your V-card she has a straight shot to your heart.  No one ever stays with his first for the long haul and the separation is always difficult.  So make sure you lose your virginity to a slutty girl that you don’t care for to avoid growing emotionally attached.  Lose it to someone so unlovable that their very death would not make you think once, let alone twice.  This will minimize the hurt you’ll feel when the “relationship” falls apart; this will prevent you from falling in love with her.  (Side Note:  What if the V-CARD was actually a card, and when someone took your virginity they got your actual V-CARD.  There would be a black market for stolen V-CARDs).

That was Rosicky at his best – talking shit about something he knew nothing about.  Two things made me laugh about this book, and neither of them involved his writing.  The first was the letter he wrote to Oprah trying to convince her to include his book as part of her book club selection. The second was the gall Rosicky needed to write a book about relationship rules.  This is a man whose computers – yes multiple – crash four times a month on account of various internet porn viruses.  The most stable relationship he has ever known has been with Sasha Gray and Windows Media Player.  Coincidentally, he counted his trysts with Windows Media Player and Sasha Gray as a threesome.

Rosicky died a self-important asshole.  Which is kind of unfortunate, because he was so much more to the people who knew him best.  He was an unrepentant jerk.  He laughed at his own jokes with a Jimmy Fallon level of shamelessness.  He was also an incredible underachiever.  He got off on getting to the doorstep of legitimacy and then finding a ridiculous reason to walk away.  For all his intelligence he sure did some dumb shit throughout his life.  If he had the option to take a girl home from the bar or to make a joke at her expense he would always choose the latter.  His friends routinely implored him to do the right thing, to put others ahead of himself.  In response to their pleas, Rosicky would simply placate them by purchasing a large amount of weed and booze.  Then, he would verbally remind his friends of how fucking amazing he was by saying, quote, “I’m fucking amazing.”

His former lover, Heidi, claimed that Rosicky was the greatest lover she ever had.  When told of his demise, Heidi immediately recanted.  Apparently she was contractually obligated to refer to Rosicky as “the greatest sexual partner she had ever had.”  The legally binding agreement now ends with Rosicky’s death.  Heidi’s current, on-the-record quote on sex with Rosicky is, “He referred to sex as ‘poetry in motion,’ and he only made love in alexandrine stanzas.  After sex he would shake and cry while repeatedly mumbling the name ‘Heather’ as he reached out to a figure only visible to his mind’s eye.”

Rosicky’s lifelong friend, Michael “Best Living Writer” Gibson threw a half-empty bottle of brandy and several jars of urine at us when we approached him for a comment.  He proceeded to sing the Beach Boys’ “Heroes and Villains” in a smoke-addled baritone until we left.  Upon hearing of Rosicky’s death, we later learned, he was quoted as saying – “Piss off, I’m busy. Remy de Gourmont won’t read himself.”

His old friend Pinky had this to say about Rosicky, “Wait, are you the cops?  ‘Cause it’s entrapment if you don’t tell me.  I know the laws; I’m smart.  I’m Canadian. What’s that? Oh yeah, Rosicky.  He was fresh, yo.  Sucks that he died, though; he owed me 300 dollars for… err… a package.  What day is it?  It’s  not Sunday is it? Fuck, I always miss Sundays.  Hey, check out my new invention, I glued a pen to a pencil.  This pen-pencil, or pencil-pen, I haven’t decided yet, is gonna revolutionize the world.”

Clearly Rosicky surrounded himself with high-class individuals and was an odd character.  He did have a couple regrets, but his regrets are not like yours or mine.  He regretted not making a vagina joke in 7^th grade because he thought it would get him in trouble.  He regretted convincing Ashley Pope he was a lawyer named Chad Alan Dixon, sleeping with her twice, and then blocking her calls.  He regretted being bullied into a bad decision by a professor during a capstone project in graduate school.  He regretted not converting to Judaism so he could open a brewery named He-Brew.  He regretted not finding Brendan Baker and beating the shit out of him after Brendan punched Rosicky on the last day of 8^th grade and ran away like a little bitch.  Brendan then transferred to another district for high school like the little racist son of divorced parents that he is.  And yes Brendan, the divorce  was your fault.  If Rosicky could be granted another year he would find that cunt Brendan, make him bite the curb, and step on the back of his head.  He regretted that Mitch Hedberg, Michael Jackson, and Democracy are dead while Carlos Mencia, The TMZ Guy, and Rush Limbaugh continue on with their wretched lives (thank you, Bill Hicks).  He regretted convincing his uncle that Enron was a good investment.  He regretted not using the line “Nice shoes, wanna fuck?” just to see if it worked.

He also had some confessions he wished to make public upon his death.  He didn’t push Alicia Park down in 3^rd grade because he liked her, he did it because she was a bitch.  He never really loved you, Erin, he just said that so you would sleep with him.  In college when he and his friends would bring home a girl from the bar, the guy who came home alone was required to steal a girl’s bank card and fill up everyone’s gas tank.  He says the N-word with conviction when rapping alone in his car.  He used to get blowjobs in a church parking lot.  He was not coping as well as he let on the past month and may have cried himself to sleep more than a few times.  He legitimately considered himself a great drunk driver.  And to that cop who pulled Rosicky over in Vegas and decided not to ticket him – he had been drinking, and yes, that was pot you smelled.  He wanted Kelly to hook up with AC Slater over Zach Morris.  He didn’t vote in the last election because he was hung-over.  He broke a beer bottle on a guy’s head in a fight.  He also hit a another guy with his car in a fight.  And most disturbing of all, he watched Glee.

God forbid that God has become impatient in his old age, because God knows Rosicky will test his tolerance.  I see that no one is crying here, which is apropos. Rosicky would be pleased.  I almost cried earlier, but I knew that Rosicky would mercilessly make fun of me if I did – he would lovingly chastise the loveless, jobless, penniless life I lead – man, do I miss him.  Rosicky would hate if we were sad today, he wants a celebration, bitches, which is why he has an open bar at his funeral.  I know that Rosicky is trading war stories with Tupac, Freddie Mercury, and Dean Martin over cigars, blunts, and bottomless snifters of Cognac.  Can we all please raise our glasses in honor to Rosicky and pour out a little liquor for our dead homie.  If there wasn’t a heaven for a “G” before, there sure as hell is one now.

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