Saturday, March 3, 2012

Guns, tomatoes and government goons


Let me apologize in advance to the people who read this column every Sunday hoping for a little levity about Bigfoots, aliens and such. I’m afraid my subject this week is no laughing matter.


Once this newspaper is published on Sunday, Feb. 26, 2012, I may not be heard from again. I’m hoping that, in appreciation for my alerting you to the horrible danger you are in, someone will remember to ask the musicians to play “Rhymes and Reasons” by John Denver at my tasteful outdoor memorial service, should the government allow one to be held. I would also like bagpipes — no more than seven — to play something rousing and patriotic after the 21-gun salute, if it’s not too much trouble.


I know you are asking why the government would provide soldiers for a 21-gun salute if it’s not inclined to allow the memorial service in the first place. Well, it probably won’t. I imagine a few of my friends and family will volunteer to serve as the honor guard. Just bring whatever guns you happen to have laying around, and please drill somewhat beforehand so as not to disrupt the sombre occasion with clumsiness and inadvertent firing.


Probably it would be a good idea not to invite the relatives with whom my branch of the family is currently feudin’ if there are going to be a lot of guns there, but that’s your call.


I have no particular fancy for flowers, but I understand if you all wish to show your deep and abiding grief by laying garlands of roses — blue, please —  across the base of the white and gray marble monolith which I expect will tower — quite against my wishes, as I am a humble sort — over the assembled grieving mobs. Under the etched words, “Our greatest hero, Ken York, was taken too soon by the goons of Homeland Security who could not allow the truth,” I hope you will find comfort and solace for your loss.


My friend and colleague, Fines Massey, may be delivering a few short remarks, possibly referring at times to the binder which I have provided him. Please do not be put off by his attire should he choose to wear that of a priest; his ordination is legitimate, according to the website from which I procured it for $17.95.


I doubt there will be any remains to dispose of, but if there are, my wife, Joyce, knows my wishes. I would like to be composted, of course. A return to the earth from which man was crafted is my intent.


It’s not a difficult process; just dump the remains on the ground and throw some leaves, sawdust and whatever kitchen scraps you might have on the pile. You’ll have to turn it with a pitchfork once every couple days and liberally apply compost activator. As you know, urine is the best compost activator, plus it adds nitrogen to the mix, which is always good. I can’t imagine there will be any shortage of donors.


I suppose if I could choose, I would ask that the finished compost be used to grow heirloom tomatoes. Brandywines are still my favorite, but I find Arkansas Traveler is also a good tomato. I doubt I’ll be able to dissuade you all from gathering on the anniversary of my demise each year and solemnly consuming a tomato sandwich with lots of mayonnaise on very fresh white bread. It’s pretty good if you slap a fried egg on there, too, and a couple slices of crisp bacon can make you forget you are grieving.


I must be realistic and recognize that my passing may move many in the community to push for a name change for our little Ozarks city at some point. I beg you not to do so, but if you do, please consider that “York City” would be a logical choice, even if at some far flung future date its origin should be so obscured by time’s passage as to cause many to believe it to be the original for which New York City was named. There’s certainly nothing you or I can do to prevent that here in the 21st Century.


But I digress. Now, as the bottom of this column edges ever closer, I come to the dire news which I must impart:


Homeland Security is replacing us, one by one, with robots that will do the bidding of its secret masters. Arm yourselves with squirtguns, for they haven’t yet waterproofed their malefic creations, so they short out easily. Squirt everyone you know, and then run! 


Jumper cables attached to the ears may also destroy the robots, but be careful not to do this to someone who might be human, as they get angry and slap you repeatedly. I also should mention that Joyce wasn’t a robot as of Friday.


Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.