Archive for the ‘Death by Elephant’ Category

Elephant Chest: A Precursor and Prelude to a Discussion on the Late Wesley Willis.

January 29, 2010

Sometimes I feel like there’s an elephant on my chest.  Actually, that’s not accurate.  With an elephant on my chest I’d be dead underneath an elephant. I wouldn’t feel much of anything.  What I’m trying to describe is a tension, a tightness that’s probably nothing like being killed by an elephant. 

Sometimes I feel like I want to be killed by an elephant.  Not soon, not today or anything.  Maybe in a few weeks or a year or twenty years.  I feel a tightness in my chest that I once felt was similar to being underneath an elephant and that I’ve now come to realize is nothing like being underneath an elephant but may inspire thoughts of elephant related suicide. 

If an elephant does it, is it still suicide?  You never hear about elephant induced suicide.  Not anymore anyway.  Years ago, far away from here there was a golden age of elephant related suicide.  Everything, by the way, has a golden age.  In the great golden age of elephant related suicide they would make a great spectacle of these suicides.  It’s hard to have an elephant trample all over you without creating a spectacle.  You can’t retire quietly to your room after a difficult day and disappointing evening and kill yourself with an elephant.  I challenge you to try it.  Keeping an elephant is expensive.  The remodeling that would be necessary alone could be in the hundreds of thousands of dollars.  Elephants eat a lot.  They poo a lot too.  You’d have to hire some staff just to take care of the feeding and clean up.  It’d have to be kept in your bedroom in order for this to work and nobody wants piles of elephant waste in their bedroom.  Well, most people don’t.  Elephant waste fetishists are obviously excluded.  What I’m saying is that you’d need at least two or three people in clean up alone so that they could work in shifts to provide you with a waste free bedroom. The Average person just can’t do it.  It’s not practical.

In the golden age they accepted this.  They embraced it.  They poured it out and rolled around in it.  They would have parades and after-parties with free drugs and prostitutes.  They’d execute clowns on television.  Those were the good old days.  I wasn’t there for it and it bothers me. Those were my people.