When I die

Remembering a poaster

When I die I want you to publish ever single inflammatory thing I ever said over a black-and-white photo of me with bad posture, next to an abbreviation of Fuck Around Find Out. I want an awkward picture of me from high school or college circulating with a pull-quote from an acquaintance saying they had it on good authority I was a tax-cheat and closeted homosexual. I want a S.W.A.T. team sent to my service so that none of my friends or family may have peace during or after my burial. I want at least one-person tased as they try to pay respects to the dead.

I want a harassment and intimidation campaign aimed at my wife and cats. I want cats who know my cats to be cancelled and chastised without reprieve. I want every cat who knows me or my cats made unemployable and sent to bed without kibble. With no toys left out under any furniture whatsoever. My wife should also be deprived kibble and toys although she will start breaking shit if you starve her too long. Every single matcha in America must be poured out immediately.

I want a Hate Has No Home Here sign where my gravestone should be. I want a swastika and a Star of David spray-painted over the n-word that was painted on the turf of my plot the day prior. I want you to find out what my stance on Israel was before you decide whether I deserved it or not. If you can’t find it, you can just make it up to prove whatever point you need at the moment.

Play both sides. If someone refuses to express sympathy, tell them silence is violence. If someone calls for thoughts and prayers, accuse them of being a betacuck f-slur maggot. Tell one group that disarming the public would have prevented my death while telling another that only more guns would.

If the assailant is photogenic, share selfies from his social media profiles showing him hitting a double-front biceps pose in front of the ruins of a long-extinct civilization who would have thought him a deity simply for being white. I want The New York Post and The New York Times to have a contest to see who can run the most selfies above the fold on the front page. I want horny, frail office women, claiming he’s scary while sharing pictures of his diamond-cut abs.

I want exactly one principled guy in congress to introduce a law named after me, making it extra, super duper illegal to threaten or kill poasters right before never getting voted on.

Blacks and gays have June but I want a month too. To share November with the mustache/prostate guys and the militant no-fap people. Every time someone’s wearable detects masturbation, it sends Apple Cash a charity that does the opposite of what I believed in. I want a scholarship awarded to the teenager who can get the most men fired and shamed for questions and statements they genuinely expressed while doing their best to understand. I want quotes fabricated about how much I loved communism, racial hiring preferences, and feminism. I want people who hate me pretending they were always nice to me while those who were actually nice suffer for doing so.

You can invent new slurs for people like me and then blame us for getting shot. You can write lore claiming I was both a Nazi and Mossad. You can suggest I was partially and secretly mixed, and alternately suffering from radicalization and internalized racism. By simply outliving me, you prove yourself better than me and have the right to ridicule me. But whatever you do, do not let my lore make sense.