I've put this off for too long... I didn't want to write these words. I was afraid of what it might do to me to see them typed out. But the time for denial has passed- it's not fair to myself, or to you the fans. The time for disclosure is at hand.
Magnus is dead.
All summer I have lived a lie, but it is a lie than can continue no more. It was six months ago that he felt the first symptoms- a little trouble using the bathroom, a little irritability in the ass region. A week later the news came that the doctors had diagnosed him with cancer of the sphincter. The tumor was nonoperable, and chemotherapy would be a crapshoot at best. Despite this dire situation, Magnus refused to give in to depression. He continued to live his life with as much vigor as before, refusing to tell anyone besides a few trusted friends that he was sick. Even when the radiation caused all of his pubic hair to fall out, and his bowels became so weakened that he had to wear an adult diaper, Magnus just laughed and threw shit around like a crazy monkey with a bald nutsack. In a time when we should have been the ones raising his spirits, he was the light in all of our lives. Alas, this was not to continue. On April first it was revealed that the chemotherapy had not been succesful, and that the tumor was only growing larger. Within a month it had completely plugged Magnus' rectum, rendering him incapable of taking a dump. When anyone else would have given up, he lingered on, braving the increasing pain and discomfort with a bold face. All attempts to administer a laxative proved futile, and on May 25th, his bowels completely hemorraged, showering all his well-wishers with months worth of backed up rancid feces. And then, after lying there in a pool of blood and diarrhea for another hour or so, we shot him in the head to put him out of his misery, and he died. As he wished, his body was cremated and his ashes dumped on the head of Tony Stewart during his recent parade. All that remains of Magnus now is this website, and his skull, which resides upon my mantlepiece, grinning at passerby and occasionally giving me horrific nightmares. I'm sure Magnus would have wanted it that way.
The night after he learned the chemotherapist had fucked up, Magnus and I sat on his deck and drank canadian beer until neither of us could see straight. Magnus was different than usual; he was loose and talkative. He told me things he'd never told anyone before. Things like:
-He had Leonardo DaVinci's "The Last Supper" tattooed on his buttocks.
-For the past ten years, he had secretly worshipped Kancho, the Japanese god of unexpected anal penetration.
-Once, he had paid five hundred dollars for a night with Kelly Rippa.
-He had never known his real father, but he had unexpectedly met his real mother in a Mexican brothel. Happily, she noted his hereditary birth mark before anything awkward happened.
-He had once gone to prison for miscellaneous faggotry, and was sold to Charles Manson for two packs of cigarettes.
Magnus told me never to share these things with anyone else. He's dead now, he'll never know. -Recolor Man