Georgia Man Makes Killing on Corpses

The secret to success," says entrepreneur Ray Brent Marsh, a prominent figure in this small town in Georgia, "is finding a need and filling it. And that's exactly what I've done."

Marsh is up for Georgia State Businessman of the Year, thanks to his aggressive campaign to corner the market on purveyors of the undead and newly-dead. With an inventory that numbers in the hundreds of bodies—"Hell, I've lost track of how many there are out there myself!" he laughs—Marsh is miles ahead of his nearest competitors.

"Most of the suppliers in the past have been small-time operators, people like John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, Andrea Yates... I've just taken what they've done and turned it into a large-scale distribution network."

Marsh paused to take a deep drag from the large Montecristo he was smoking, then spent a few moments staring at the considerable ash and reflecting on his new-found success. "You'd be surprised how much demand there actually is for my product," he went on to say. "Down in New Orleans, you've got your Marie Laveaux voodoo wannabes, they're always looking for fresh meat, so to speak. And down in Haiti, you've got your Tonton Macoutes. Hell, they can't get enough of my product. I can't ship them out fast enough for that bunch. And then further down, in the smaller islands, there's always a demand for what I've got to sell. Always will be."

"The thing you've got to realize is that it's cost effective for these folks. I mean, all you've got to do is feed these bodies a little of the zombie cucumber, cut the head off a live chicken, do a little chanting and dancing around a fire, and boom, you've got yourself an obedient member of the undead, ready to do your bidding. No worries about coffee breaks or overtime, either. Yes sir, the market starts in the bayou country in New Orleans, and is active all the way down the Caribbean to Venezuela."

Asked about possible plans to expand, Marsh warmed to the subject.

"Oh, hell yeah!" he crowed. "I've been in negotiations with Kathie Lee Gifford for a few weeks now. She's looking for a new, more servile work force. Martha Stewart, too. And because these folks don't care where they're located, we're getting feelers from a lot of major corporations that want to move their operations offshore. They need cheap labor, and we've got the cheapest around."

Marsh then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and delivered his biggest news yet.

"Don't let this get around, but I've also heard from George Romero in the last couple days. Seems he wants to film yet another remake of Night of the Living Dead. He says this time, he wants the living dead to all be low-level employees of a big, high-profile energy company based in Houston."

"I'm gonna be in show business!" Marsh cackled. He then concluded the interview by stubbing out the Cuban cigar he had been smoking, putting a lid on the ashtray and offering it to this reporter as a "decorative urn."

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Dear commune:

What the hell is Damon Wayans doing on Delta's in-flight video? Did he bitch-slap the president and get some kind of harsh community service sentence or something? Damn.

Peace.

Rodney Shue
Belmont, LA


Dear Rodney:

That's not the in-flight video, Delta shows programming from E! on their flights now, which is more entertaining but less helpful when the fuselage rips open at 20,000 feet and everyone thinks the oxygen masks are treehouse telephones. Who Damon Wayans bitch-slapped to end up on the E! network is another question entirely. And for future reference, you can't bitchslap the president unless the president is a bitch, which won't happen until America gets over its backward prejudice against bitches. Right now it's only possible to dipshit slap the president, though as a progressive, forward-thinking organization, we here at the commune hope that the days of presidential bitch-slapping are not far off. Lastly, though we appreciate your stimulating questions, we must ask that you have the navigator or someone transcribe your letters for you in the future, because we understand about the control panel being bumpy and all, but you've still got the worst pilot's handwriting we've ever seen.

the commune

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for whatever it is you're complaining about. the commune is also not ignoring you. Nope, not ignoring you. Nope, nope. Chatter on all you want, we're not ignoring you. La la la la la.

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That guy thought he was so smart. If you're wondering who I'm talking about, pause a second to read the title of this column, up above. You with us now? Good. Now: Who wears their hair like that? Assholes, that's who. Only an asshole could pull off the "I'm so brilliant I don't have time to comb my hair or make an appointment at SuperCuts" look. Get over yourself, buddy. You wouldn't be fooling any of us if you had a crew cut. Crew cuts are like nature's shorthand for "dipshit." Smart of Einsteen to figure out the haircut ruse, I'll give him that but little else. And what's with all that relativity mumbo-jumbo? Any loudmouth off the street can make up some kind of magic formula and get praised for it, as long as he knows how to intimidate people and doesn't ever back down. Don't believe me? Fine, Q=xW34. Not so hard, is it? Now line up to kiss my ass, I'm the new genius on the block.

And let's not forget Mother Theresa and her whole ego-trip. "Oh, look at me in my cute little hat! I'm so fucking wonderful and giving! I help the poor with no thought of my own gain!" What a bitch.

And what about that Newton? Overrated. Those fig cookies suck hard. There, I've said it, somebody had to. Those things are so dry I bet if you added a drop of water they'd blow up to the size of an air mattress. Maybe that's what they're for, I don't know. I don't claim to be on the cutting edge of these matters. That does seem to be a lot of air mattresses to sell in one package, though. At the grocery store no less. Maybe if you were shopping for a whole commune in need of temporary bedding it would make sense, but there can't be that many of those people out there. Maybe there are. The thought kind of scares me, frankly.

If it turns out I've eaten over 30 air mattresses that are just waiting to inflate the next time I take a sip of water, somebody's going to be hearing from my lawyer. You can count on that. As a matter of fact, I'm leaving a note for my lawyer now in case the mass-inflation kills me, which it likely might. I don't want him to have to guess at what my last wishes would have been. Litigate, motherfucker! I don't pay you to look good in that suit. (Nice suit, by the way.)

While I'm at it, I'm going to leave a note for my chef as well. Don't want that smarmy bastard cooking my liver or anything untoward like that after I'm gone, just because I didn't leave behind a note specifically forbidding it. That guy has a hungry look in his eyes.

Who else was an asshole?

Did I mention Mother Theresa? God, she really sets me off. Sure, most of you out there in la la land probably buy into the cult of personality that says she was the greatest thing since shit on toast. And I'm sure some of those homeless orphans thought so when she was giving them backrubs and buying them big-screen TVs and what have you. But did any of you true believers out there ever play ping-pong with this piece of work? I didn't think so. Mother Theresa had a ping-pong mean streak as wide as Cecil Fielder's ass. You didn't dare ace a serve past that big-knuckled monster unless you wanted to see what one of those paddles could do to your tender butt-flesh. All those kids at the orphanage knew the unwritten rule: you let the Mother pad out her table tennis win streak if you want your porridge tonight, bucko.

Truth be told, I'm not that fond of Aristotle either, but that's a column for another day.

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