Thursday, December 13, 2007

RIP: Almighty Malachi (2007-2007)

Malachi the Sun-Tailed Molly passed away today in Orillia, surrounded by loves ones (Jane and Miranda), of natural causes. He was a fun-loving fish; he enjoyed getting the water changed in his tank, being fed, hiding in his rock, and, most of all, spending time with his wife, Waffles. Malachi is survived by Waffles, his half-brother Jack Bauer, sister Susie Derkins, and Brutus Ironfist, who did the cleaning. Malachi also leaves behind three children, and was pre-deceased by two others. Funeral services will be held this evening.

His final wish would be that we would all remember the words of the song of which he was the namesake. He hopes that we will all take these words and let them guide us throughout our day-to-day lives:

Bowling Song (Almighty Malachi, Professional Bowling God) by Stephen Lynch

You watch me on your TV
Say that my job is easy
Say I am not athletic
You think my sport's pathetic

But you can't judge me till you've walked a mile in my bowling shoes

So I don't get all the ladies
Got a mullet from the 80s
I am known throughout the valleys
As the prophet of the alleys

And as I roll the ball, I cry, "Let me bowl or let me die!"
I'm almighty Malachi, the bowling god
The smell of rosin gets me high
Kiss those f---ing pins goodbye
I'm almighty Malachi, the bowling...bowling...god

Got a ball that's smooth and all black
I keep it in my favourite ball sack
I get a feeling in my soul
As I finger every hole

And as I roll the ball, I cry, "Let me bowl or let me die!"
I'm almighty Malachi, the bowling god
The smell of rosin gets me high
Kiss those motherf---ing pins goodbye
I'm almighty Malachi, the bowling...bowling...

Not a single man will try
To beat almighty Malachi
All who challenge me are slain
Come on f---ers, pick a lane
Marshall Holman, Gary Dickinson, get in line for your ass kickins
John Petraglia and Norm Duke, you're so lame it makes me puke
Who among the Pro Bowl sector
Dares to don his wrist protector?
Not that pussy Nelson Burton; tells me that his wrist is hurtin'
Hey Mark Roth, hey Earl the Pearl, are you scared to give the ball a hurl?
How bout Dicky Weber and his son Pete? I'll turn the motherf---ers to cream of wheat

And as I roll the ball, I cry, "Let me bowl or let me die!"
I'm almighty Malachi, the bowling god
The smell of rosin gets me high
Kiss those f---ing pins goodbye
I'm almighty Malachi, the bowling...bowling...God
The bowling...God

RIP Malachi

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