Dead Letter File

The internet is so great. Why, you’re using it this very second. From adopting a kitten to arranging anonymous sex with a stranger in your local area, there’s nothing you can’t do on the internet. And now you can use the internet to send messages to your friends and relatives from beyond the grave.

That’s right, Postexpression.com enables you to “create and store multimedia messages that will be sent by email to friends and family after you die.” I’m intrigued, please tell me more. “Post Expression allows you to communicate with people after you’ve died. It gives you the opportunity to communicate final words of encouragement, confession and love; or private information that may get lost if you pass away.” I hope that these people are better at delivering dead people’s messages than they are at using semicolons.

I can’t decide whether this is the stupidest, most creepy idea in the world; or just straight genius. The service only costs 19 euros. That’s a small price to pay for precious, precious closure.

Post Expression does offer a free, 30-day trial. However, this is of no conceiveable value unless you die. Within 30 days. Also, in the event that you do die, they won't deliver your free trial messages until after you've paid them 19 euros. Best not go with the free trial then.

I wish that their website included helpful sample messages. This is what I imagine a last letter to a lover might look like:

“Hey Baby, I love you so much. I’m dead now, but our love will last for eternity. And Baby, I know that it’s gonna be hard, but I’d really like for you to try and stay celibate until you die too. In honor of our love. If you had been the one to go, I would totally do it for you. The thought of you getting it on with another man is too much for me to bear. You do love me, right? I’ll be watchin’ you from Heaven. XOXO”

Or maybe a final message to your favorite texting buddy:

“OMFG! i’m dead. this blows. WTF? :( i guess I won’t be ROFL ever again. have a good rest of ur life. G2G. Cya L8R.”

Or perhaps the ultimate “fuck you” from the great beyond:

“Jimmy, I know that you’re my brother and all, but I always hated you. You are such a complete dickhead. Remember when I took Jake Henderson home to meet Mom and Dad and you told him that I was taking special medication for pubic lice? You ruined everything. Why? I liked him so much. He was perfect. And remember when you borrowed $150 to get a new cd player for your Trans Am and promised to pay me back in a month? That was FIVE years ago! I guess I’ll never collect on that now. Seriously, go fuck yourself.”

And it totally has practical application. For instance:

“Son, if you’re reading this, I’m probably dead. I’m so proud of you. I can’t imagine having a better son. Anyway, there’s one last thing that I need you to do for me. There’s a rather substantial cache of German porn hidden in my tool shed. It is IMPERATIVE that you dispose of this before your mother finds it. She’d never understand. Third drawer from the bottom. You’re the best. Love you, Dad”

As you can see, this has limitless potential. OMFG! G2G. I could die at any moment. I have sooooo many messages to write.

The Curious Case of Horst Rippert

“If you’re in a war, instead of throwing a hand grenade at the enemy, throw one of those small pumpkins. Maybe it’ll make everyone think how stupid war is, and while they are thinking, you can throw a grenade at them.” – Jack Handey

At this point, it is a near universal truth that war is primitive, inane and largely unnecessary. Especially if someone made you read Kurt Vonnegut in high school. Man, that guy was really successful in foisting devious “don’t kill other human beings” propaganda on the young and impressionable.

A sterling example of the cosmic irony of war is the curious case of Horst Rippert. Rippert was a Luftwaffe pilot in the Second World War. One of his favorite writers was Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of The Little Prince, whose central character was also an aviator. On July 31, 1944, he shot down a P-38 airplane with French markings over the Mediterranean.

Antoine de Saint-Exupery was an Allied pilot in the Second World War. His favorite authors included Paul Valery, Jules Verne and the German Romanticists. On July 31, 1944, he left on an assignment in a P-38 to collect aerial intelligence on German troop movement in the Rhone Valley and never returned. Nearly six decades later, his plane was found at the bottom of the Mediterranean.

Upon hearing of Saint-Exupery’s disappearance, Rippert was convinced that he had killed his hero. He told no one. Rippert, now 88 years old, finally confessed this possibility after being contacted by Luc Vanrell, a French marine archaeologist who discovered and substantiated the identity of Saint-Exupery’s lost plane. Rippert stresses that if he had been aware of the identity of his victim, he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger. “If I had known it was Saint-Exupery, I would never have shot him down,” explained Rippert. “I loved his books. He was probably my favorite author at the time. I am shocked and sorry. Who knows what other great books he would have gone on to write?”

“I didn’t target a man who I knew. I shot at an enemy plane that went down. That’s all.” Praising Saint-Exupery, Rippert said, “He knew admirably how to describe the sky, the thoughts and feelings of pilots.” He then added, “His work inspired many of us to take up our vocation.”

That’s kind of ironic. You know what’s not kind of ironic? The song “Ironic” by Alanis Morisette. There isn’t a solid example of irony in that entire song. For instance: “A traffic jam when you’re already late/ A no smoking sign on your cigarette break/ It’s like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife/ It’s meeting the man of my dreams/ And then meeting his beautiful wife/ And isn’t it ironic….don’t you think?”

No. I fucking don't. And it's not. Those are just frustrating situations where things aren’t going your way. You know what is ironic, Alanis Morisette? Writing a bunch of amazing books about aviation that inspire people to become pilots, one of whom becomes a really skilled fighter pilot who later mistakenly kills you in a dog fight. That’s fucking ironic. Oh wait. is the irony supposed to be that it’s a song called “Ironic” in which there is no actual irony? I can’t take this anymore. Stop messing with my head, Canada!

Anyway, in light of this sixty year old aeronautic tragedy, I think that I might have a pragmatic solution to the whole “war” problem. If everyone in world would just write a great book that was read and adored by everyone else in the world, no one would be able to intentionally kill anyone out of sheer literary admiration. Done and done. Get typing people!

The Ongoing Struggle For Human Rights, Smugness

Boycott, boycott, boycott. Is there any word more stirring to the human spirit? If you are a big fan of boycotts, and I am, then the 2008 Beijing Olympics is like Christmas in September.

The best type of boycott is the kind where you don’t actually have to do anything. This typically involves boycotting a product or service that you wouldn’t normally patronize to begin with. Here’s an example. Remember when everyone was all up in arms about the tuna industry killing dolphins that would accidentally get caught in their fishing nets? Man, people love dolphins. Especially slutty girls, who like to get them tattooed on their lower backs.

As a life-long vegetarian, this was an ideal protest situation. I got to walk around loudly and publicly repining about the callous industrial destruction of everyone’s favorite aquatic mammal without having to change any aspect of my life. This left me with plenty of leisure time with which to feel superior to the plebian and unenlightened tuna sandwich set. See? Boycotting and feeling superior is fun. And easy.

Which brings us to China. China seems to be the international whipping boy as of late. Did you see all those protestors throwing bottles and plastic cups at that athlete carrying the Olympic torch through the streets of Paris? You know, that torch-bearer in the wheel chair? That was sort of fucked up.

I’d almost feel sorry for China if, well, China wasn’t China. It’s almost like they’re following the playbook of some outlandish cartoon villain. From the cultural genocide and oppression in Tibet to the arms dealing support of the ethnic cleansing in Sudan (where, incidentally, China has a substantial oil pipeline), the Chinese government is so amazingly and consistently nefarious and so very easy to disdain. Bring on the boycott!

Now, I don’t think that a boycott of the 2008 Summer Olympic Games themselves would be that productive. Plus, the thought of all those disappointed, tearful, teenaged, ribbon-twirling, female gymnasts is almost too much to bear. No, I intend to go for the deep pockets: the corporate sponsors.

This year’s roster, although impressive, shouldn’t pose too much of a problem and fits in nicely with my prior boycotting experience. McDonalds? Please. I’ve been smugly boycotting the golden arches for years. (Once again, vegetarian) Snickers? Am I a hungry ten year old? Johnson & Johnson? Their supposed “no tears formula” doesn’t even work.

The Volkswagen Corporation was brought to you in part by a grant from the Third Reich, so they are already on the “no buy” list. I just discovered Asic’s “Onitsuka Tiger” model, so the Adidas boycott doesn’t phase me. I don’t have any appliances made by General Electric. My refrigerator is made by Magic Chef. I don’t think that they will be sponsoring anything anytime soon. Do you even know anyone who has an Omega wrist-watch?

It gets trickier when we get to the Tsingtao brewery. Shit. What am I supposed to drink when I go to Chinese restaurants? That’s the only non-Japanese Asian beer that I know about. Not you too, UPS? I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of the U.S. Postal Service in the next few months. I do prefer the crisp, brown, utilitarian smartness of the UPS uniform. Coca Cola? I never really loved you to begin with.

Visa? Now you’re breaking my heart. Like most Americans, I like purchasing items but don’t actually have any money. My Amazon.com Visa card allows me to live in the middling luxury to which I’ve grown accustomed while at the same time horribly mortgaging my future. For every $25,000 I spend, I get a $25 gift certificate. For free! I can’t afford not to use it.

Fortunately, fate has interceded. In what turns out to be a twist of almost magical synchronicity, I recklessly maxed out my Visa card just a few days ago. Fuck you, Chinese government! Sure, I’ll have to pay Visa back at some point, but I have a feeling that it won’t be anytime near this year’s Olympics. Or really anytime in the year 2008. Good thing that I have a spare Mastercard lying around somewhere. Feeling smug about the 2008 Beijing Olympics: priceless.