I wrote this as my final speech for class this summer. I hope you enjoy it, or that you don't enjoy it. Either way, fuck it.

I never thought I would see this day, and I especially never thought I would be up here, speaking in front of all of you. I do not really know why they chose me to give this eulogy—Robert and I were not even that close. Sure, we hung out a lot and had almost all of the same interests, and yes, it is true that we were born across the hall from each other and were lifelong childhood friends after that. Other than that though, I hardly even knew the guy. So this made me wonder, why me? Well, I thought to myself, I am pretty easygoing and quite attractive. I am also very handsome, and if you were not looking at me when you heard me speak, you might think I was a young, white James Earl Jones with a not quite as resounding, definitive, or famous voice. There were many other extraordinary qualities that I have that might make me suitable for such an occasion, such as my quick wit, relation to the Kennedy family and Snoop Dogg, and if it ever came down to it, I would sock you in the jaw. I do not want to bore you with those though, so I won’t mention them. Where was I? Oh, right—Robert’s death. Although I was not there, I was in fact talking to him on the phone when it happened. Can you imagine listening on the phone as your friend is tortured and beaten to death by a group of angry Track & Field enthusiasts? I could hardly make out what all was going on with his screams of telling me where he was and to call the police, but luckily I was able to push past that. Robert and I were best friends and could not have been closer. Like all of you I am sure, I’m going to miss him. I cannot think of a better guy to die than Robert Scribner—he was the tops. Why it seems like only yesterday that he and I accidentally said peanut butter aloud at the same time—talk about a coincidence! Do not believe all of the hype, though. He was a juicer, a user, and a two-timing scoundrel. I remember one time he asked to borrow $4 from me to buy a the extra jumbo-mumbo drink at the movies when we was especially thirsty; after pushing that small child out of the way of the bus and then single-handedly thwarting the armed gunman trying to hold up the cashier in the robbery just before that, who wouldn’t be… but do you think I ever saw a dime of that four dollars. Hell no! Robert Scribner, you are a son of a bitch, and I want my money. In all seriousness, to Robert’s parents, I would like to say this: I will be here for you if you ever need me to decide for you to repay your son’s debt to me and to society. Thank you.