The word “morbid” comes from the Latin word “morbus” meaning “diseased” and someone could argue that the idea to stage a pre-emptive funeral ride for a couple of brothers with a morbid fascination for getting hit by cars is clearly the product of a diseased imagination, but if so, you have to appreciate the irony a death-themed occasion giving rise to such a life-affirming experience, one to be fondly remembered for all this lifetime and perhaps even beyond the beyond.
My heart swelled with pride to see two Haulin’ Colin trailers transformed into bicycle hearses and my eyes went wide in awe to witness not only the cycling prowess of tehSchott and Tall Fred in pulling their human cargo but also the intestinal fortitude of Wreyfords Junior and Senior who consented to be pulled in makeshift coffins all the way crosstown like corpses—albeit ones who could eat and drink on the way.
In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Twain’s hero gets to attend his own funeral and hear all the townspeople waxing rhapsodic about his life and how badly he’ll be missed now that he’s drowned; last night our fraternal heroes got to enjoy that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity themselves as—not an entire town, but at least two or three drunken sots—sang their praises, accompanied by Seattle’s own best impression of a New Orleans funeral band.
I burned in effigy the custom mini coffin that the darling daughter fashioned from duct tape and cardboard for me in hopes of exorcising the demons that keep making cars run into the Brothers W. and apparently it’s worked so far as—unlike on so many past Friday mornings—the internetz yield no reports of Wreyford crashes (although admittedly, they did ride home in cars.)
Statistically speaking, yours truly, with more than two decades on the boys, is likely to beat them both to the grave; now when it’s my turn for real, I want a wake just like theirs.
My heart swelled with pride to see two Haulin’ Colin trailers transformed into bicycle hearses and my eyes went wide in awe to witness not only the cycling prowess of tehSchott and Tall Fred in pulling their human cargo but also the intestinal fortitude of Wreyfords Junior and Senior who consented to be pulled in makeshift coffins all the way crosstown like corpses—albeit ones who could eat and drink on the way.
In The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Twain’s hero gets to attend his own funeral and hear all the townspeople waxing rhapsodic about his life and how badly he’ll be missed now that he’s drowned; last night our fraternal heroes got to enjoy that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity themselves as—not an entire town, but at least two or three drunken sots—sang their praises, accompanied by Seattle’s own best impression of a New Orleans funeral band.
I burned in effigy the custom mini coffin that the darling daughter fashioned from duct tape and cardboard for me in hopes of exorcising the demons that keep making cars run into the Brothers W. and apparently it’s worked so far as—unlike on so many past Friday mornings—the internetz yield no reports of Wreyford crashes (although admittedly, they did ride home in cars.)
Statistically speaking, yours truly, with more than two decades on the boys, is likely to beat them both to the grave; now when it’s my turn for real, I want a wake just like theirs.
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