Why All Celebrities Die in Santa Monica

I was just reading about this man and his website.  I’ve been purchasing from him for a few years — Aaron got a kangaroo scrotum from him, Uncle Mark a Cane Toad keychain — and have never ceased to admire the selection of moose shit, insect jewelry, alligator coffee accessories, and preserved shark fetuses he has on offer.  Finally clicking the About Us section, I read a little about this man, named Glenn.  Though he looks remarkably like James Lipton, he’s hardly so serious:

An avid traveler with 54 countries on every continent (outside of South America) bursting from his pocket, his love of the whatever led to a shark tooth jewelry business out of a camper van roaming the tradeshows of The Great Southeast.  When his lovely and beloved wife became stricken with M.S., however, they were forced to settle down in a shop, so they naturally relocated to a place just outside of the Hoover Dam in Nevada.  With all of their baggage spilling into the aisles, they chose to make haste and make stock of their taxidermic hats and fox oosik (look it up) toothpicks, boasting this shop as part-business, part-educating tool for the countless precocious youngsters littered about Hoover’s Mean Streams.

Unfortunately, Darel’s condition was constantly weakening, though in no way similar to her fortified courage and iron will; Glenn’s love wavered like a bullet, its path immediate and direct, and he stood strong-legged on his promise to keep the love of his life out of a nursing home, no matter how far she ventured in condition, even personality, from the girl he fell in love with so many years ago.  Enter Heidi, a professional orderly so profoundly moved, so loyally and lovingly devoted, to the family’s cause and fortitude that she made it a full-time gig: as a nurse to Darel, a housekeeper to their two cats, and a fully influential contributor to the shop’s upkeep.

Together, Heidi and Glenn wrung saline liquid, that juice of toil and pain, from their tear ducts and sweat glands, in heeding any and every need from Darel, who rendered herself as self-sufficient as a person in such a condition physically could, maintaining a characteristically headstrong integrity every step of the way.  Unfortunately, her path was reaching an end.  Tragically, after four long years of endless and heartbreaking struggle, Darel was released into The Great Beyond, fluttering like one of her cherished Deïopeia pulchella (known as the crimson speckled footman, to the layman) moths toward a great and well-deserved Light.  Darel, dead in the gloomy and ominous Nevadan June of 2000.

Naturally, Glenn and Heidi had a shotgun wedding at The Chapel o’ Love during June, 2001, and their love has since blossomed like so many Dendrobium orchids, a bloom so delicate and rare that one is tempted strike it freeze-dried, then dip it in polycarbonate and gold, lendiing a kind of special posterity that could only be topped by a resin casting of a snowflake, both of which are available online.  Anyway, Glenn was lonely, depressed, and hadn’t touched anything but female jalopy in years.

Well, in the wake of the terrorist bombings on the 11th of September, 2001, Heidi and Glenn decided to pack up shop and move back to South Carolina, opening a wunderkammer in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, peddling Scythian Lamb ferns and woolen narwhal tusks to the curious spring break commoner, cementing a dream that wasn’t exactly theirs but might as well have been.  Life was moving in the right direction, finally.

The Myrtle Beach Business quickly became a favorite on the boardwalk, attracting patrons and purchasers of all ages and financial levels, but for Glenn and Heidi, the real money, true joy, was online, and in 2002, they closed down shop and hammered the shop’s new, glimmering sign into a binary lawn — and a fertile lawn, at that!  Since 2003, Where Else On Earth? has become, simply put, an internet sensation, exceeding every other retail American, privately-ownedtaxidermy website in hits during the holidays of even and prime-numbered years.

Glenn and Heidi still reside in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, dutifully doting on their two cats’ whiskers and their neighbors’ children’s pectorals.  I currently reside in my dusty, bug-ridden St Kilda room, alone, whilst my housemate and some blonde bargirl he found are in the adjacent room, quietly fucking.  Here’s to life.

The End.

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~ by nearhelsinki on June 4, 2009.

2 Responses to “Why All Celebrities Die in Santa Monica”

  1. I promise, that if you come home soon. I will reside in the room next to you and fuck. Loudly.

    • I don’t care what you do, as long as you capitalize your name every now and again. Despite vogue and moda, you do still know proper noun when you see it, don’t you, My Friend?

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