Darkside of the Sun: Alive and kickin’

Mike Corrigan

Mike Corrigan

By Mike Corrigan

BN Columnist

Obituaries used to be dull, reading something like this: “Herbert H. Feldspar, 77, passed away last week after a long illness. For 30 years, he was employed at Sears before forgetting where he worked and reporting for his last seven years to the jewelry counter at J.C. Penney, where he liked to dress up as Madame DeFarge. He leaves behind three wives, etc. Funeral services, etc.”

Dull! So nowadays, they let the families write the obits. Not trusting my family (you wouldn’t either), I have prepared my obituary in advance, fearing that if I wait until after I’m dead I will be in no condition to remember the highlights.

(Incidentally, it’s never too early to plan the funeral, either. I would like someone who doesn’t know how to play a lick to attempt the guitar solo from Free Bird, to warm up the crowd. Also, it must be remembered that lilacs were my favorite flowers, so no one should send any, as not being able to smell them would make it even more depressing to be “late.”)

Here’s the obit; run when necessary, Wayne:

“Born of mixed parentage (one male, one female), the late Michael T. Corrigan lived a life of constant anxiety and foolishness. He died last Saturday night of gunshot wounds, even though it was the person next to him who was shot. Michael was such a highly empathetic soul that when he saw the injury he passed out into a handy birdbath and drowned. “Now, wasn’t that just like him,” his sister Kathy praised.

Though his brief time here on earth dragged on considerably for most who knew him, he always said there were at least a dozen experiences left on his bucket list. He still aspired to:

  1. Get up some morning before noon;
  2. Have a good picture taken of himself in daylight;
  3. Learn the true identity of Spiderman (everyone else seemed to know, but no one would tell him);
  4. Negotiate his way to the bathroom at night without stepping into the litter box.

After serving in the Army for two years, Mike joined the work force and spent a good deal of his time writing, or pretending to. In this way, he was able to finish six news stories and a book report on The Hunt for Red October. In his later years, Michael enjoyed driving really slowly along city side streets and pretending not to hear the horns behind him; walking around town and wondering which street was his; and scaling the walls at CMMC in his Spiderman pajamas and homemade utility belt. He enjoyed leaving for long winter walks, especially when he remembered to take his house key with him.

Michael wrote for The Bridgton News for far too long, and yet he wouldn’t even stop when he retired! In his earlier years, he had composed inscrutable poetry that no one read. In his later years, he composed scrutable poetry that no one read. Michael leaves no loving survivors, although a couple of relatives liked him well enough, toward the end, or so they say now. There will be services of thanksgiving held all over the world.

“We have lost a great American,” President Obama said in his weekly radio address. “But perhaps if we all keep looking for him, he’ll turn up only to be drinking at some bar and we’ll all have a good laugh about it. Yes, we can! Change!”

Funeral services, etc…

Mike assures us he is not dead yet, but then again, he always says crazy stuff like that.

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