If you would’ve told me yesterday that I’d be writing an obituary for the guy in this photo, I would’ve had a lot of questions. Who is the guy? Where’d he get that funny little cigarette? Wait, now he’s dead? If he’s dead then who took the photo? He did? Excuse me, now? When the guy from this photo died and no one came to claim obituary rights, I knew it was time for me to step up and tell his story, whatever it may be.
I remember the first time I looked at that photo of the man with the little cigarette. He chewed on it to make me laugh, because of how it was a funny thing to do. Man, we were so innocent back then. By we, I mean America.
You can tell a lot about a man from the way he takes photos of himself chewing on funny little cigarettes. I bet this guy did it a lot, with his mouth, with his teeth. Maybe even some tongue. I’d like to think if we were friends, you know, before he died, he would’ve offered me a cigarette.
I would’ve looked at him in his dark green/perhaps yellow eyes with what I would’ve considered average size pupils most-likely and said “no, cigarettes are for poor people, hicks, and the downtrodden metrosexual.” He wouldn’t have taken offense to that. No, no, he was from a different time. A time when he was alive.
Ha, maybe it’s just me getting all emotional from the fumes coming off the funny cigarette guy’s body, but I think he may have had to die so all of us could come together. I’m sorry—I don’t mean to make this about Trump. This should be about the guy who used to sit in his car in one of his classic black t-shirts, wearing one of his handsome baseball caps, doing the dirty with a little
gag cigarette so we could all have a laugh from him. Man, I bet he was such a good guy. I bet he had a guy name, like Darryl or C9-F@$5. I wonder if he liked television. I wonder if he knew about the radio.
Damn, I sure would’ve liked to tell him these things if he was alive. Which he is not.
End of Obituary.