It is with much regret that I announced to the Orange County Closet Pedophiles Assoc. that one of our own, Dung Winer, has taken his own life after a bravura show of theatrics.
Dung, it seems, had been coming apart at the seams for quite some time now, but had managed to disguise his fixations through a "game face" rigorously adhered to during each of our bi-weekly "confessional" meetings — which is why none of our fellow relatively-well-adjusted "child-lovers" need feel we were derelict in our duties to a fellow human being by letting this pass unnoticed.
Unbeknownst to us all, Dung had been frequenting a Chuck Palahniuk fan site on Usenet, posting various comments under the names "Tyler Durden," "Hank," and, on occasion, "Marla." On Dung's "Marla" days, Dung would go "all out": dressing up in femme "punk" attire, with temporary tattoos, combat boots, and thrift-store dresses, all to get in character [we will, for the sake of discretion, omit any mention of the underthings Dung would wear on said occasions — also, it would seem, purchased from thrift stores].
The story goes, apparently Dung had problems still to work through stemming from infidelities on the part of his wife [Dung's total and abysmal failures in the business arena, documented at length over the past two decades in the Orange County Register, seemed not to have phased his confidence one bit]. So deep ran Dung's bitterness over the alleged affair(s) that Dung was known to recite all infractions — be they real, imagined, or embellished — out loud, for the neighbors to hear, set to the tune of then-popular radio hits [one long-standing favorite for inspiration, a neighbor says, was Sir Mix-A-Lot's "Baby Got Back": Dung would sing his version ("She sucks big dicks and I cannot lie / You other brothers can't de-ny," etc.) close to 12 hours a day, at its peak].
Ultimately the pressure of beating himself up with the worst-imaginable (to him) emotional crime [in 4/4 time, at that!], drove him-"self" into the innermost recesses of his psyche, the only relief for which came one day when — in an attempt to emulate the climactic scene of David Fincher's filmed version of Palahniuk's Fight Club, and, as was par for the course with Dung, missing the point entirely — putting a loaded revolver in his mouth, after shouting, "I'm gonna kill you, Tyler! You fucked my wife, Marla!" and then proceeded to blow his fool brains out.
Needless to say, there was quite a mess, and there was a rumor that somebody — somebody, somewhere — might idly have had the passing thought about even considering giving a shit about, like, the stain on the carpet [but we're still checking on that for confirmation].
As follows in the terms in Dung's will, all of Dung's estate will go — as befits only the legacies of the finest, 100%-acting-on-blind-faith, dyed-in-the-wool Republicans — to our current U.S. President, Dick Cheney.
Asked for comment about Dung's death three weeks after the incident, Dung's wife replied: "Oh, I'm sorry . . . you said, Dung died?"
R.I.P Dung. I'm sure the worms will love you — first, in your life, I'm sure!
A Good Day to All,
Chortle E. Chuckles
(N.A.M.B.L.A. National Rep.)
P.S. Would any of you Orange County residents be able to e-mail me back to let me know where Dung's grave might be located?
Seriously: I happen to be in town today, and . . . I've really got to take a piss!