The Shart Heard Around the World: RIP Mr. Poopoopachu

I recently watched a film about a group of friends who lived life with such an admirable passion and sense of purpose, and it got me thinking: If I passed away today, who – if anyone – would eulogize me?

[It’s okay, take a minute to compose yourself.]

Soooo – let’s just say I’m dead. Here’s how my funeral might go. [My season finale if you will.]

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Pastor Lavaroni – “Please be seated.  Thank you.

We are all gathered here today to celebrate the life of a beloved son, brother and friend – Mr. Poopoopachu.

To be honest, I, personally, did not know him well.  He came to this church once about 6 years ago and met with me to ask if I would sign a letter stating that he was registered in this parish.  It was so that his sister’s pastor would allow him to become his niece’s God Father.  He seemed like a sweet soul.  Genuine.  I signed the letter with the understanding that he would begin attending mass each week and become active in our parish.  Today is the first time that I have seen him since.  [Shameful, I know.  But true.]

But I am not here to judge him, friends.  No.  I am here to help you all cope with this horrible and untimely loss.  I urge you to come together at this time and support one another with your memories of Mr. Poopoopachu.

At this time, I ask those of you who wish to say a few words about Mr. Poopoopachu to come up to the altar.”

Jeff Ruland, Former NBA All-Star; Former Iona College Men’s Basketball Coach – “Mr. Poopoopachu had many opinions.  None of which I agreed with nor cared to hear.  But I admired his passion.  He’d email me after every game – win or lose.  But I best remember his notes after losses: ‘How can you keep giving Fields’ minutes to Jenkins?  He’s fucking terrible. You’re terrible!,’ he once wrote me.  In hindsight he was right.  I called him a couple of times, emailed too, and I regret what I said – mostly because it instigated him to continuously contact me.  I shouldn’t have shared his phone number with the team.  And they certainly should not have placed late night threatening calls to him.  For that, I’m sorry.  <sigh>…I wish he’d email me again.  My life is empty without him.  I’m coaching at UDC for fucksake!
[What can I say?…I had school spirit.]

His 6^th Grade crush – “He was cute, sweet, shy and let me wear the MOST comfortable red hooded Champion sweatshirt, even though he loved it so much!”
[No shit!  It’s been 20 years, but thanks to Facebook, I was able to track her down and ask that she offer a eulogy.  Sadly, her offering only reminds me how painful it was to sit idly by and watch her make out with my friend.  Girls are so cruel.]

The Rock of Narragansett – “It is fitting that we are burying Mr. Poopoopachu – Big Poo, to those who knew him well, especially the ladies who knew him well – in his Bears costume as he died weeks after the Bears’ playoff hopes also perished.  Who would have thought that just days after Peanut Tillman eschewed tackling to attempt his 2,651th unsuccessful strip of the season that Poo would be killed through suicide-by-cop?  Lovie Fucking Smith!!!!!!  Sorry, I was channeling Big Poo.  But on that note let’s all share how Big Poo touched us.  And to clarify: I mean figuratively, ladies.

If we can take anything from today it’s that Big Poo had a huge heart – and not just because he needed something oversized to pump blood to his 6 foot 4 inches of extremities.  If you weren’t a Mahopac cop or a street sign in his drunken line of sight you knew this larger than life figure was a caring giant.  He was the greatest of sons, the bestest of friends and the gentlest of lovers.  And he was the most dynamic of people.  When he lived he truly lived.

He leaves a loving mother and sister, thousands of friends, hundreds of women with busted hearts and an armoire full of clothes that none of us can fit into.  The family has asked any donations to either go to his favorite charity, !Woot!™ ‘the foundation for nerds who long to touch a boob,’ or to leave a envelope in the basket in the back of the chapel which will go to the team of Clydesdales that will pull his casket to his final resting place.  Unfortunately we who were appointed pallbearers couldn’t dead lift (oof, extremely unfortunate pun) his Refrigerator Box Perry Coffin™ and that’s not because of Mr. Poopoopachu’s body mass but because of the weight of his enormous heart.” 

Sgt. Slaughter, Former WWF World Heavyweight Champion – “‘Choke slam me into the Cheez-its…plllease, Sarge!!’  That was the gist of my first encounter with Mr. Poopoopachu – him pleading for me to hurl him through the air.  I never did get the chance to choke slam him.  I did, however, slap the Cobra Clutch™ on him a few times.  I also dropped him to the floor with a surprise forearm shiver to the back of his head in a crowded bar, and we even got kicked out of a gentlemen’s club together.  Despite these great memories, I wish he was standing before us right now…I’d choke slam that filthy animal through this altar.  At ease, you maggots.”
[I first met Sarge back in ’97.  It was about 1:30 in the morning and I was in a supermarket looking for treats, and well, Sarge was there shopping and hoping to avoid people like myself – drunk college kids on a bender.  Ten years later, coincidentally, I swear, I got the chance to work with the champ.  And I shit you not, he remembered our late night encounter.  Not me per se, but my plea to be choke-slammed through a Cheez-it display.  We’ve now had the pleasure of drinking together a few times and it’s always been WWF-like.  My “Sgt. Slaughter story” continues to write itself, with its next chapter scheduled for late April 2010.]

The artist formerly known as Dave – “Although my lawyers have advised me to not speak directly of the incident, we can all agree that Mr. Poopoopachu truly died as he lived.

There could have been no finer monument to the man than the act of extreme absurdity and smut that finally did him in.  If there was enough of him left for an open casket, I’m certain we’d see a smile on his face.  But there are few smiles today.  It wasn’t just a $300 bear-costume-deposit we lost that day, we also lost a friend…a friend who was always quick to share a kind word or a nude photo.  For Mr. Poopoopachu was a passionate man.

The line between he and his passions was always blurry.  Wrestlers from the 80s, snowmobiles, large breasted women, the Chicago Bears Shuffle Crew…these were things that were always a part of him, just as he was a part of them.  This became literally true several nights ago.

So let us raise our cans of Stroh’s beer and toast the man who always tried to involve everyone, even in his death.

<Pffsst!>

Angels themselves could sing no sweeter chorus than that sound of fresh beers inside these church walls.

To Mr. Poopoopachu, not for the absurd way that he died, but the absurd way that he lived.  I’ll miss you, friend.  With out you the world is a little bit duller and our inboxes are a lot safer to open at work.  Bottoms up.
[A touching tribute from a man I consider equally blessed to be making the most of life.  Dave recently up and quit his job to walk cross-country.  That’s right, he’s walking from NYC to…?  Not even he knows at this point.  His misadventures on the road, including his wild escapades in Amish Country can be followed here.]

RockerTycoon – “Though his remains lay here behind me, I say do not shed tears for this man!  His life was full and he died valiantly.  Mr. Poopoopachu’s military service during the Automaton War for the Axis of Allies and his daring strategic victory over the Barons of Bionics were merely small milestones in his life.  Who could ever forget in ’15 when Poo joined up with the Dallas JagerBombers blixing team for their World Series championship run against his old team the Chicago Bears.  Hell, who knew the Bears would have quit professional sports altogether the following year.  And yes, while it’s debatable that Poo’s manifesto to the NFL, MLB and NBA in ’12 to conglomerate their leagues as one sport eventually lead to the Robot Terrorist attacks of Prague in ’19, we must remember that it was Poo who created a sport for the common man to excel at – Blixing.  ‘Invented by a deranged lunatic!’ some would say, not I though.  Who could have created a sport that combined the elements of curling, updating your Facebook page and making Star Wars references into one organized event.  His death at the hands of Magic Johnson’s cyborg body was a shock to us all.  For your service to humanity and your truly unique vision of the future, Mr. Poopoopachu, we salute you.  Sleep well, little prince, sleep well.”
[Let’s all play a game. It’s called what was RT on when he wrote my eulogy?  My guess: He smoked a bunch of Cilona Extract and drank a few too many pints of Blue Milk.]

Flanny, fellow two-time Jersey City Coed Softball League champion – “When thinking about the passing of Mr. Poopoopachu, I must say he is no ordinary man.  He is more like Tom, Dick and Harry all put together.  Or perhaps like a box of Joe from Dunkin Donuts…It smells good, it’s always hot, you can never quite see inside, and always in a container bigger than necessary.  You can have just a lil’ joe, or grab your self an oversize cup, your choice…You’ll be glad you tried it.”
[I think she’s hitting on me.  Am I right?  Shameless.  Blatantly flirting with a corpse in front of family, friends and dozens of jilted lovers.  I think I’m turned on.]

A brother in Nerdery – “‘A good man Mr. Poopoopachu was. Strong with him was the Force.’  That’s a quote from an old friend of Poo’s who regrets not being able to be here today as, well, an X-Wing fighter crashed in his backyard – again.  That rascal.

You know, Poo was a good man.  Until I met him, I thought that I was the biggest and most embarrassingly nerdy geek in the world.  When I was with him, I was able to compare my comparatively low level of Geekdom to his monstrously high level and think, ‘You know what?  I’m fucking cool compared with this goof-ball!’

So I’m sad that he is gone because, once again, I am the biggest fucking nerd that I know.

On a happier note, I only had to buy a quarter of the beer that I would normally buy for a party – I mean funeral – this size because Poo won’t be drinking today!

So, here’s to you Mr. Poopoopachu, Live long and Prosper – er, well, I mean…you were a good soldier, you knew the difference between an Original 1984 issue Optimus Prime and some lousy G1 re-issue and knowing was half the battle.  If only – sniff, sniff – you were here long enough to figure out what the other half of the battle was.

Here, Here! So say we all!”
[When a guy who had a Yoda ice sculpture at his wedding calls you the “most embarrassingly nerdy geek in the world,” you take that as a compliment.  And you also hope that you find a woman as great as he did, so you can have your life-long dream of a sushi bar Jabba the Hut and Cantina Band at your wedding.]

Not a female relative of Rex Grossman – “My first glimpse of Mr. Poopoopachu was of him standing outside a swanky apartment building, wearing a Star Wars hoodie and talking on his phone.  Based on his fashion choices alone, I liked him instantly.  As I started to get to know him, I learned that he liked: zombies, reading (preferably books about zombies), movies (preferably horror, though the occasional romcom wasn’t off limits), Beam and Coke, alcoholic sweet tea, Connect Four, Rush, snowmobiling in Montana, and sharing stories of his crazy escapades.  I achieved a deeper understanding of this complex creature through his blog posts.  Poo has caused plenty of trouble in his time here, but he described it all with such understated skill that I could only wish I had been there to be a part of it.  This only made me like him more.  I am glad to have known him, however briefly, however superficially.  Tonight I raise my glass of Beam and Coke to Mr. Poopoopachu: a good man to have on your side.”
[Beam & Coke!  Beam & Coke!  Beam & Coke!]

Mr. Poopoopachu’s brother of 20 years – “Fuckin’ guy.  I don’t know what to say…

If Mr. Poopoopachu were here, he’d probably just repeat meat over and over.  Slowly.  Over.  And over.

Meat.

‘Suck a bag dicks’ was one of his favorite sayings.  ‘SIARI’ (pronounced /siˈrˈiː/) was another favorite.  (That means to Suck It And Ride It.)  Too much?  Sorry.  But he’d say it at your funeral.

He hated the phrase ‘fake tits.’  They’re tits.  If you’re staring down a pair on the street, on the page of a magazine or in some weird porno, they’re still tits.  Real.  Real tits.

We were once talking about this really hot chick and I said something about how great I bet she sucks it.  And he said, ‘I hope she sucks it with her ass.’

And perhaps the moment that defines Mr. Poopoopachu best…While walking down the street – completely sober – a girl approached, walking right toward us:
Poo: Nice tits
Mouth above the tits: FUCK YOU!
Poo: Kill yourself”
[Meat.]

Pastor Lavaroni – “Hmm, well that was – uncomfortable.  Many thanks to all of you who shared with us today.”
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If you wish to write a quick eulogy, the comments section is open for business.

Filed under: Season Finale by Mr. Poopoopachu
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