***As the grand finale for Wiener’s Week at Redneck’s, I bring you Black Hockey Jesus. I’m always extra nice to him, just in case he has an in with the OTHER Jesus. I’m ALL about networking. Heh.***

When I started reading Attack Of The Redneck Mommy, I thought Tanis Miller was just another hilarious blogger who liked to run around naked outdoors. Generally, this is enough to hold my attention and get a blogger added to my reader. Then I figured out she has nipple rings and I was a straight up fan (Did you catch that part about being “straight up”? Pay attention. My writing has layers). Nipple rings evoke imagination about… other things. My wife used to have nipple rings. The first time I saw them, my already strong feelings for her blossomed into the love that evolved into the rock that is our marriage. I will state my moral outright: Nipple rings can change the world.

But then I kept reading and discovered that it’s been almost 3 years since her 4-year-old son died. When I learned this, Tanis took on a complexity I wanted to know more about. I wanted to know her, to drink coffee with her, and talk for hours. But then I realized this was impossible because she lives in Canada. Crossing the border into Canada freaks me out. I’m totally paranoid that I bought my used Saturn Vue from a methamphetamine addict who left a big chunk of ice hidden in some compartment I don’t know about. And then those border guards would wave their magic meth radar gun through my car and throw me in some Canadian jail made of bamboo with a dirt floor and a mangy rat would be my only companion for like 14 years. I’ll stick with email, Complex Tanis.

If you’ve ever read my blog, The Wind In Your Vagina, then you know I’m kinda creepy and obsessed with death and bones and stuff like that. You should read it. There’s a lady in Illinois who reads it every day and she really likes it. Plus my Mom thinks it’s the bomb. And people who Google shit like “ghost vagina pigeons”—they’re avid readers. Anyway, I’m totally freaked out by the inevitability of my own death. When I was 14 my buddy Chris was killed by a car and it turned me into a super broody dude who wrote kick ass poems about black stuff and nightmares. I actually asked Chris if he would let me interview him for my guest post at Attack Of The Redneck Mommy, and he happily obliged.

BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: So Chris, you’re dead. That’s pretty trippy. Tell us about it.
GHOST OF DEAD CHRIS: Well, being dead is a lot radder than you’d think.
BHJ: Really? That reminds me of a favorite Whitman line of mine. “To die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.”
GODC: Exactly. It’s really hard to explain. But Walt Whitman was usually on the money.
BHJ: Well that sounds comforting and all but death still makes me edgy. Here’s something I wonder about a lot. Are you like, you know, still 14? Are you trapped in 1986? Do you still think Run-DMC’s Raising Hell is the roper dopest? Because you missed out on Tupac, bro. Tupac pushed that shit to the extreme.
GODC: No, I know Tupac.
BHJ: Wait. You fucking know Tupac? Like know him know him?
GODC: Yeah I know Pac. And before you ask, yes, I dig The Mountain Goats.
BHJ: But how the hell can you dig The Mountain Goats? You’ve been dead for 22 years!
GODC: It’s hard to explain. But when you die, it’s like. It’s like you know… everything.
BHJ: Dude you’re blowing my mind!
GODC: I know I know. It’s goofy. Of course dying destroys everyone who loves you. I saw how hard it was for you and Danny and my Mom. But that destruction—it’s like its own little education about dying itself. It’s hard to die. Just like it’s hard to be born. But being dead itself? It’s fucking sweet. Trust me.
BHJ: I don’t buy it. Dude you never even got any tail.
GODC (laughing): Dude. Sex is merely the tiniest little peek at death. You’re just on your knees looking through the keyhole, my man. Mortals crack me up.
BHJ: Well I’m glad you get such a kick out of my existential anxiety, Chris.
GODC: I’m sorry, man. But really, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m serious. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trashing life. You should live your life like crazy. Live your life on the edge of a knife. I’m certainly not trying to rush you toward death. There’s plenty of time to be dead.
BHJ: Word, Chris. That was dope. But listen. I’ve got one more thing. A few years ago I ordered some pancakes for breakfast and was shocked to discover that your Mom was my waitress. And even after all these years, she still had that deep soulful sadness in her eyes. It still kinda haunts me, you know? If you could, what would you tell her? What would you tell Tanis?
GODC: Wow that’s tough. I would avoid all that trite stuff about a better place and meeting again and all that. Everybody tells them that. And I think they know all that. I would want to evoke for them a kind of huge cosmic container in which everything is ultimately OK. You know? But I wouldn’t tell them that everything is OK, because it’s not. Actually, everything kinda sucks when you think about it hard enough. Man, I’m pressing up against what language can say here. I guess I’d just say:

Mom. Tanis. Everything sucks. But that’s OK.