Needs More Unicorns
I bet y'all thought I was joking last week when I said this here column could very easily turn into a weekly diatribe about "Little House on the Prairie" and its completely deranged, emotionally scarring idea of family-friendly programming. Well, I was not remotely joking, and you should really know better by now than to question my level of insane dedication to pointlessly random stupidity.
For those of you blissfully unaware, "Little House on the Prairie" was a show ostensibly about Laura Ingalls Wilder and her 19th-century childhood in the town of Walnut Grove, and it was supposedly based on Wilder's "Little House" series of books. The show aired between 1974 and 1982, but it was heavily syndicated throughout the entire '80s and still airs at least twice a day. People might try and tell you they remember it being about family and love and pioneer spirit and Jesus and whatnot. Yeah... that's not at all what the show was about, and those people have either blocked out 85 percent of it to protect their fragile sanity or they're straight-up lying to your face because here is just a small sampling of the horrific delights in store for the tender psyche of a "Little House" viewer:
Plague, scarlet fever, and general pestilence
Babies dying in fires
Babies being smashed into windows by Alice Garvey before dying in said fires
Pathological lying to facilitate getting it on with crippled girls
Little girls (plural!) who fall down wells
Alcoholic circus midgets
Boys and girls sharing the loft, Flowers in the Attic style
Adventures in self amputation
Curing gunshot-related coma through prayer, beard growth, and obelisk building
Grandpa's a liar and that horse is gonna die
Oh yeah, and let's not forget the motherfucking MIME RAPE:
Also, everyone goes blind. No, seriously, everyone goes blind at some point. Adam went blind twice. So you see, chilluns, "Little House on the Prairie" was actually a show about foofy hair and psychotic disorders and the depravity of the human condition. The next time you come across someone born between about 1970 and 1985 who's completely goddamn insane, you might want to ask if they happened to watch a lot of "Little House" as a kid.
So anyway, today's diversion has nothing whatsoever to do with "Little House" and for that you can thank Lainey, who saved you all from the perils of my writer's block by sacrificing a topic she was going to use for a post on her blog.
What I would like for you campers to tell me is what you've got on your deathbed checklist. No, that's not the same thing as a bucket list. I don't give a rat's ass about your inexplicably random desire to have sex in the second-to-last row of every movie theater in the state of New Jersey, and I couldn't care less about how much you want to complete your life's goal of sampling every microbrew in the Western Hemisphere before you croak.
No, what I want to know instead is what you need cleaned up, disposed of, handled or sorted out when you shuffle off this mortal coil. Maybe you have a beloved pet or one of those child-creatures who will need feeding and grooming and petting. Maybe you've got 46 crates of fetish porn in your apartment's storage locker and you need somebody to burn that shit before your mother finds out. Maybe you need a designated corpse guardian who will run interference and make sure your sister doesn't get to pick what you'll be buried in, since she's always had an inordinate fondness for animal-print lycra and marabou trim and you don't want to show up at the pearly gates lookin' like you're gonna work Cloud Corner.
So what's on your checklist?
Sarah Larson lives in Minnesota, where she is usually up to no good. She doesn't believe in worrying about post-mortem arrangements, as she will clearly live forever since evil never dies. She can be reached by email here.
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