ortal fools announced their plans to disturb the earthly remains of reggae legend Bob Marley Wednesday, as part of a plan to celebrate what would have been the singer's 60th birthday. The proposal to exhume Marley has angered some Jamaicans, the few who are not exceptionally easygoing about everything, since Marley was one of the most famous sons of the country.

The exhumation would culminate in the body being cremated, inhaled deeply by close family and friends, held for as long as possible, and then released into the air. The ashes would then be scattered over the soil of Ethiopia, which Marley's widow Rita called his "spiritual resting place."

"Bob was the dearest soul I ever knew," said lifetime friend Cosell Hamlet. "An inspiration to everyone he ever met. I know his soul is in a better place. And I bet his body will be great shit."

Marley popularized reggae internationally in the 1970s, with a string of hits such as "No Woman, No Cry" and "Get Up, Stand Up." Reggae is the spiritual music of his home country of Jamaica, and the Rastafarian brought it to everyone in the world with his peaceful lyrics and mellow sound. Thanks to him reggae can now be heard at any party attended on a college campus or from any window from which pours copious amounts of smoke.

In Jamaica, however, all is not perfectly mellow for everybody, as some say to take Marley's body is to rob Jamaica of its history, and risk bumming everyone out.

"Nah, man, don't bogart Bob. He was a part of Jamaica, and now his body is part of the land itself," said Jamaican history expert Dr. Addi Townstone, who has started an organization to protest Marley's exhumation. "We ask the family to let him stay—stay in Jamaica."

Rita Marley refused further comment on plans to exhume and smoke her husband, who died in 1981 from cancer. The Bob Marley Foundation, not to be confused with the Peter Tosh Committee to Legalize It, was quick to quell the uproar.

"It's okay! It's nothing to get out of joint about, brother," said Bebe Shadley, press agent for the Foundation. "It's all irie, my friend."

Odidi Hubistato, who oversees the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and will be presiding over a ceremony honoring Marley on his birthday February 6, looked forward to the ceremony.

"Ashes to ashes, smoke to smoke, like we say," said Hubistato. "I for one plan to be up in the front row when we light those spleefly remains. Jah love the man."

All have apparently forgotten the price to be paid for unearthing the dead, regardless of good intentions. To stir the remains of the deceased is to invite an eternity of damnation and curses, the howls and haunts of the wretched specter himself. Prepare, all who trespass, for the nightly visitations of the angry ghost of the dead reggae superstar!

Bob Marley himself, an ethereal presence in a world unknown to mankind, declined to be interviewed. We were, however, able to talk to long-dead Jacob Marley, no relation.

"I wear the chain I forged in life," said Marley's ghost, indicating a very obvious large chain. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it." He concluded, "I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate."

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I could not be more outraged if I found out the country of Paraguay was needling my sister. Everything in my penthouse apartment is gone, everything. The switchblade toothbrush, the hydro-powered vacuum cleaner, the lithograph of the Zapruder film still. All of it gone, all because I was too trusting. Because I thought I was hip and "with it," because I thought I could reach the young people.

Well, fuck the young people. I want my stuff back. Those guys from M-TV's Cribs were just lousy thieves. Came in, shot a few hours of footage of my penthouse apartment, left, came back in the night and made off with everything. Even the roast beast. I'm starting to think they weren't really from M-TV at all, too.

It started off innocently enough. I had just finished paying off my bookie and had to make another large withdrawal when I realized I had not yet paid the "cleaner" for solving my problem with former commune Office Manager Phil Lampost. I had just emerged from the bank again, counting the thousands of dollars I had withdrawn, when the "talent scouts" for M-TV's Cribs came up to me. I thought them common hoodlums, but they recognized me right away and said they loved my work—although, it occurs to me right now they couldn't place my name.

They told me their predicament, that they had to film an episode of Cribs for M-TV right away and their guest for the episode, comedian Paul Rodriguez, had dropped out on them at the last minute. Once I checked a TV Guide at the local newsstand to verify such a show called Cribs exists (I'm no dummy), I told them it was okay to use my crib for their latest episode. They assured me the young people would be trippin' to have me on M-TV.

It was luck that they had the camera (a Hi-8, and five tapes) with them, so we were off right away. I opened my doors and my fridge to these frauds, and I must say they drank some very expensive foreign beer known as Dos Equis. Hours of footage shot, and perhaps I should have suspected something by the extra attention they paid to the locks and security systems, but I had no idea, I've never seen Cribs before and the young people get into all sorts of weird fads. When they left, I thought I had done a little to bridge the generation gap and reach the future of America. Failing all else I hope these thugs at least have enough facts to know the truth about the Apollo 13 mission.

The fact that they made off with everything I own and, again, drank some pricey foreign beer doesn't bother me all that much. Alright, it bothers me. It bothers me more than you'll ever know. But what really bothers me is the subterfuge and the dishonesty. Perhaps if they had come up to me, forward and honest, and asked for everything I own I might have… no, that wouldn't have worked. I have to admit they at least knew what would work effectively.

No question, I've once again been played like a two dollar fiddle by some sort of fiddle-musician. Just when you think you're as suspicious and distrusting as a soul can get, you learn it's still not quite enough to keep your entire penthouse from being stripped to the bone. I can replace the furniture; it just means cutting salaries all around and selling some of those new-fangled computers I got for the reporters. But I'll never be able to replace the trust, unless there's some place you know that does that invasive sort of procedure.

Fortunately, I have my memories of this deception. And their descriptions. Now, if you don't mind, I have another visit scheduled with my "cleaner" friend.

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"Uncle Trey had a dog that we all liked a lot, a dog by the name of Darby. He was a small white dog with wiry hair, I think he was a Jack Russell terrier. Darby used to love to dance on his hind legs. He'd do that for hours on end; all you had to do was hold up your hand like you were giving him a treat and he'd dance. My sister Stephanie made him a tutu out of lavender chiffon, and every time we visited Uncle Trey, she'd put that tutu on Darby and make him dance around. That brought a smile to everyone's face, even Uncle Trey, who was known for not having much of a sense of humor.

The other thing that Darby did was bark and snap at water coming out of the hose. That, and dig in the yard. He was always digging under the fence and getting out. He'd dig a new hole under the fence at least once a week, and then go out and roam the neighborhood for hours until one of the neighbors called Uncle Trey and asked him to please put his damn dog back in the yard and not let him get out again. One time Uncle Trey came out in the morning and found a new hole under the fence, and the tutu that Stephanie had made for Darby stuck there. He got mad and swore, and when Darby finally decided to come home, Uncle Trey shot him.

But at least he let us bury him in the tutu that Stephanie had made."

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