Everyone died on the Real World last night. There was a fight and JD got mad and he tossed them into the sea or smashed them with his fists of power. Eulogies after the jump.
We mourn for Devyn, who was dumb and lazy and would not put up with your negative energies. She didn't do much in the last week of her life, mainly lying on her back and talking on the phone upside down while a brutal roommate storm raged just outside the tiny phone room. In the final few moments of her too-short existence, JD stormed in and ripped the phone out of the wall and tossed it into the murky New York Harbor. Devyn was heard to have yelled "You psycho!!" before JD threw her through a wall and she lay still, for eternity.
We grieve for Baya, because she never got the chance to do anything remotely interesting or say anything resembling a salient comment on the state of the union. We will remember her dance pants and her jingly jangly bangly earrings. We will try to forget when a manic JD pushed her into the bathtub and tossed a radio in after her.
What is there to say of the life of Chet? He lived fiercely and he lived boldly, and that was just his pants. Chet spent his last fretful hours worrying about his beloved roommate Ryan. For whom he had a love as unrequited as the stars' for the wispy dawn, as the mermaid's for the golden and expanding land where she will never walk, run, or spend all day in the sun. It was a good love, true and able. But it was never meant to be fulfilled. Ryan was late in coming home from film class, very late, so Chet paced in the house's parlor, the old grandfather clock ticking and tocking and bicking and bocking as it does, and he remembered the student film he'd made with Ryan, in which he'd had a precious apple stolen. When Ryan finally did arrive, perhaps knowing that his inglorious end was drawing near, Chet pulled him close to his bosom and said Hallelujahs. As he pressed against Ryan's warm, supple body, Chet felt as if a great shield or pair of angel wings was expanding around him, as if he were being inoculated against all the world's perils and torments. But this was only a falsehood trick of his heart's great desire. Because JD approached him from behind and lashed a garrote 'round his neck and made quick work of the life of Chet V. Chetterson.
It was too short a walk down life's strange path for Scotty the Body. Though he spent most of his time taking his meaty paws and scooping out exercise pills from the enormous plastic tubs he kept in the kitchen, he will also be known as a principled and steadfast fellow. One who will hide your m'f'in car keys if you don't wash your dishes, as he did to Katelynn and the girls. Scott will also be remembered for stealing Chet Chetterson's apple in the landmark short film An Apple a Day.... ?. Though Scotty's brawn and keen, trundling intellect could surely prove of use in a neighborhood alleyway bout of fisticuffs, it was not enough for JD's immeasurable wrath. He was struck about the Gumby face and pork chop neck with a rolling pin and perished, in the forty-second year of his life.
Dear sweet Katelynn, you were too beautiful for this ugly world. When you pranced about in your delicates for all to see, you were an angel from Florence. When you inexplicably slipped into "Oh no you di'n't" ghetto speak during the final week of your life, you were like a brilliant bugle call from Heaven's most talented orchestra. When you said "You ain't my boss, you ain't my father, you ain't my boyfriend, so don't choo tell me what to do" and other silly phrases, it was as if Donatello himself had farted softly into the nave of a holy basilica. Though, um, it was terribly confusing. Seriously, where the hell did that voice come from, departed Katelynn? It's a mystery we will never have explained as JD, angered by her consistent failure to do her dishes or take out the trash "on my owwwn damn tiiime", set her ablaze and pushed her onto the porch where she shrieked and caterwauled and crumpled into a smoldering heap. Like a wigger witch.
O Muse! Sing to me of Ryan, forged as he was by Hephaestus' most prized hammer. Sing to me of his chestnutty good looks, his floppy suave. Tell us the old stories of his student films, made while studying at the not-exactly-prestigious New York Film Academy. Sing to me the song older than our fathers, the poem of Ryan's inexplicable apple-stealing movie and then the one where he wandered around vacant lots drinking beer bottles and then smashing them. Call upon the wisdom of the ancients, dear Muse, and show me the late-night subway ride when he fell asleep and unwittingly sent Chet into a worrying spiral of despair. Show me his hangdoggery when he was finally rescued from the grimy bowels of the Smith and 9th F train stop (just one more stop to my house, dear Ryan! Just one more!) O Muse. Please explain why such a presence did depart this Earth, when JD ran him over with the tiny car they all drive but the girls never, ever, like not fucking ever, fill up with gas.
Sarah. She died. She spoke behind everyone's back and put rouge on her cheeks and taught art therapy to strange gay children and old men. She went into the confessional and loudly bitched about everyone, seemingly unaware that she could be heard. But was she truly unaware, or did she just not care? We shall never know, as she was the focal point of JD's unending stream of dino-damage. Sarah was accused of being fake in her last days of disco, mostly because she chose not to confront her issues with roommates head-on, but would rather quietly harp on them when they weren't around. She claimed it was because she didn't care about the boys, no she really just liked playing poker with the girls and dabbling her cheeks with makeup like a tart and flat-facing off into the pebbly world with her meager convictions intact. Alas she was impaled by a curtain rod, wielded at the hands of a foaming JD. Shocked, she gurgled as blood sputtered from her soon-to-be-unmoving mouth, "But I teach art to gay children..." And then she staggered, fell into the kitchen cabinets, and slumped over dead. We mourn. Sorta.
JD was the last to go. As he toured the house, looking at all the life he'd ripped from this world, he remembered why he'd flown into such a frenzy. It was, of course, because the girls wouldn't clean and, especially in the case of Katelynn and Sarah, they were insolent and petulant about it. Katelynn with her ridiculous blackspeak, Sarah with her fake moon goddess bullshit that dear smooshy Ryan so brilliantly called her out on. It was really Sarah that stuck in his craw the most, because they were supposed to get along. You see, he was a gay person. And she used to be a lesbian and was very with-it. But that was not a solid enough foundation for the babbling tower of sycophancy and placation and facetiousness that the two built. And so it all came tumbling down as JD coined the term "blowdown" (meaning a fight, a blowout) and smashed a glass table and said "You just contradicted yourself!!!" Immediately he felt stupid because it was completely disproportionate for the fight, but hell he was in it now so he went and ripped the phone out of the wall as Devyn grambled on to some idiot and threw it o'er the rail and into the sea. Then he went about his wicked murdering spree and took a taxi to his beloved hotspots. Urge, where all of his roommates, straight or gay, oddly seem to end up at a lot. And then up to Elmo, where he sat at a table for one and contemplated his choices. He then casually slipped a cyanide pill into his diet Coke. He stirred, sipped, and expired.
In lieu of flowers, please send money to Richard c/o Gawker, New York, NY. Now if you'll please join us at the reception, there will be cold cuts and warm Sprite for everyone. Oh, and if you'd like to rent out the now empty and tragedy-tainted Real World Brooklyn house for a Bar Mitzvah or a wedding or something, you can do that now. No one ever said life was a bowl of cherries.
At least I don't think they did.