We Regret To Inform You That Olivier Is No More

Dear Loyal Reader, I have found that it has become my unfortunate task to inform you of Olivier's passing. Yes, our favourite Euroboy is no more. I recently learned that he shed this mortal coil in the arms of a gonorrhoea-ridden underage Vietnamese prostitute named Daisy Duk, at a neon-illuminated massage parlour in an unsavoury part of gay Paris. The circumstances of his death are murky; as I have gathered, his demise involved a gerbil, a cardboard toilet roll and a box of matches.

Whatever happened, I am sure that there will be much wailing and beating of the breast. This happened to me earlier this evening, until Madame Maxine had the bouncer hurl the john out the window. Nobody lays a finger on Madam Maxine's girls. Nobody.

Well, it's up to me to write some sort of eulogy. I don't know how to do that, so I'll just summarize his life and then try to think of something nice to say.

Olivier and I had a rocky relationship. Those six months we spent together as pimp and ho hold some of my sweetest memories. And also some of my worst memories, which is why I had to get that restraining order. But everything turned out alright in the end and we ended up as friends, sort of. Well, I wouldn't say we were friends, exactly - it was more a professional thing. Anyway, I digress. Let's get to the life part, I hate introductions.

Olivier was born in the early 17th century, the son of a fugitive millionaire aristocrat and his piece of fluff, a chambermaid by the name of Lulu, who was as dangerous as she was beautiful. So she was kind of nonthreatening, and kind of homely too. Luckily, Olivier got his grandfathers looks and became the chiselled, rock-bodied adonis he is today. Now I'm sure you're wondering how it is that Olivier is still alive, four-hundred years after his birth. Well, I'll tell you. One day he slipped on a grape in the great marble halls of the Palace of Versailles, where he was attempting to woo the hand (or at least some part of her body that wasn't quite similar to her hand but you get the idea) of a chambermaid named Fifi. Looks like it runs in the family. Anyway, the velocity of his falling body was so fast that it pitched him 700 years into the future.

In the 24th century, the world will be a nuclear wasteland. Apparently Dubya will be voted into a second term, use state funds to have his brain inserted into the body of a giant killer robot, destroy the Middle East singlehandedly, drain it of oil and launch a full-scale nukular attack on the Republic of Georgia in the name of freedom and all that is holy. Missiles will shoot from his eyeballs and nostrils like enormous, deadly boogers. Unfortunately, since it will be Dubya, every single warhead will miss, and the entire world will be destroyed except for the mountain village of Nokalakevi. Olivier will land, unfortunately, under the only surviving grape vine in the entire world. He then will slip on another grape, and be thrown 300 years into the past, where he landed in a boarding school.

Luckily, being exposed to nuclear waste gave Olivier SUPERUBERHUMAN (tm) powers. He learned modern English within two seconds of landing and managed to bullshit his way into free tuition, board and books at Choate. He then seduced several girls to make up for his lost chance with Fifi. After that, he had a cigarette and some chocolate milk. Then he watched a few episodes of "Yu-Gi-Oh" and played some Fifa. Then he graduated, got into college, went back to Paris to become a corporate whore and died (oh, karma!).

And now for the part where I say something nice about him. Um, Olivier was very nice. He liked to do nice things for people, like take their money and run them over with his customized sea-green Cadillac and yell, "Bitch, you KNOW what I want" and "Sex me, woman!" He also did other things, like, um. Sorority girls. Yes. Olivier changed my life, and now he's dead. Condolences. The end.

Listening to: "Idioteque" by Radiohead