This is a eulogy I have written for my little brother to be read at my funeral in the unlikely event that he outlives me. Some may think it’s classless to write one’s own homage but if you knew how truly useless and inept he is, you would understand why I feel the need to take this precaution.
I also realize that nobody wants to hear my brother’s garbled, impotent, voice. He has no flair or panache, and his diction is sub-early-Eliza-Doolittlian. So, I will record myself doing an impression of him reading this essay with a little style. Just play the tape and put some peanut butter in his mouth before he gets up to the podium.
Scientists around the globe agree that my brother, Nathan, was likely the most handsome man on Earth. I say those scientist are charlatans, boozebags, liars, and hacks. He was the most beautiful person in the universe.
I once saw a sunset admire him, I once saw a swan commit suicide out of pure jealousy, and I was the person who had to call the cops when Scarlett Johansson was screaming for him and wouldn’t leave our front lawn.
He’s a perfectly crafted deity that makes Channing Tatum look like an aborted potato – and that’s just his face beauty – the rock-hard, sculpted, bod is an altogether different story.
And speaking of stories, did I ever tell you about the time Nate single-handedly won Vietnam? Or how he always knows the lottery numbers every week but the government said he’s not allowed to play anymore? Or how he built the Rocky Mountains? Well he did. He did that and a whole bunch of other stuff too.
Here is a short list of things my brother did:
-Swallowed a whole watermelon
-Built a bridge out of sleeping snakes
-Named The Beach Boys
-Killed the last tiger hawk
-Discovered a new sense and named it smeeling
-Invented the double harmonica (both extra long and stacked models)
He lived a simple life, in the house he built himself, with the tools he smelted himself, on the island he formed with his own lava breath. That is where he spent most of his time, as that is the only place where the indigenous bark that formed such a large percentage of his diet grew. The locals say it was good luck when he was near their village. They thought of him as some sort of fertility god as so many extra pregnancies seemed to have resulted from his proximity.
He strangled Hitler, caught a meteor in his hat, could pull off a flawless quintuple-axel, and could spray Cabernet Sauvignon out of his perfectly sized nipples at will.
He also made all the clouds in the sky and Stonehenge.
Me? I’m just a dirty, horrible, smelly, brat who doesn’t know when to shut his dumb beak mouth compared to him, that beacon of brothers. He was manna from heaven, I am the white stuff that forms at the corner of grandpa mouths. He was a shimmering pole of celestial light, I am strange pubes on a toilet seat.
I’ll miss my brother. I’ll miss the way he used to be more handsome than me. I’ll miss the way he used to be able to lift the entire ocean with his mind. I’ll miss his Adamantium skeleton and claws.
So let’s raise a glass to my brother, Nathan: Goodnight, sweet prince, I totally did break your Han Solo action figure when I was 6, you were right to whip me with that extension cord.