Tonight you’re having beers with George, the bassist from your old band Anal Bong. You haven’t seen George in over 20 years, not since the band broke up over a disputed Denny’s check (George and Harry argued that since you ordered the side of pancakes they shouldn’t have to split evenly). That’s all water under the bridge though and you’re excited to find out why George got back in touch.
“I want to commit suicide with a lit bong up my butt and I want you to do it with me,” George will say.
You don’t need an explanation. You remember the pact. Everyone in the band agreed that the way you all would go out would be that everyone in the band would take their own lives with lit bongs up their butts, unless a car accident of other act of God took your lives first.
“Live by the band, die by the band,” George reminds you.
You remind George that even if it wasn’t ridiculous that the two of you would kill yourselves to adhere to a pact you made at age 19, the pact wouldn’t be valid if the other guys don’t commit suicide with you.
George bows his head to confirm that both Harry and Pamela are no longer with us.
You cry into your beer.
“Hearing this I just realized that I never stopped loving Pamela, and a part of me was staying alive solely out of hope that I might run into her and we’d rekindle our late teen love and I’d finally have someone to leave my wife and adopted son for,” you tell George. “Harry I can do without.”
“There’s one way to run into her now,” George says. He places on the table a jar of pills and two medium sized bongs.
“What’s a man got without his word?” you ask.
With that you and George head out to his rented room at the Ramada and the two of you smoke up and then sit on your bongs with bellies full of pills until you fall over on your sides and say hello to Pamela (and Harry) in that rusted old touring van in the hereafter. Tomorrow Pitchfork dot com will go dark to commemorate your passing.
Happy We Are Still Anal Bong Day!