Ken Lay: Alive Enough To Create A Flick'r Account, Edit/Update With Pics of What He's Been "Up To"

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Editor's Note: Since Ken Lay's death (or should we say "death"), we've been getting a lot of email from people suggesting he faked his own demise and then perhaps smuggled himself out of the country. As it turns out, you were right, TinFoilHat666@gmail.com! Intern Bess Levin recently received the missive below from Mr. Lay detailing his whereabouts since his supposed death. Ahem. "Death". (Any resemblance between Mr. Lay and a Jim Cramer bobblehead doll is entirely coincidental.)

So.

Well.



I suppose I should start by saying, I’m not exactly,

“technically”... ...dead. He-he…Surprise! Bet that gave you a much needed guffaw, didn’t it? No? Not something we can laugh about yet? Hmm. I always did have trouble “working the room,” if you will. I can’t even tell you the number of times I was about to go
on stage at Caroline’s thinking “Kenny-boy, you are just
going to KILL tonight!” and then just absolutely bombed.
We’re talking crickets chirping. We’re talking papers
shuffling. We’re talking CLEARING OF THROATS AND CHECKING
OF BLACKBERRIES. I wasn’t even good enough to be heckled. But, I guess that’s not what we’re here to talk about. Yes, it would be courteous, dare I say “nice” of you to
let me tell you a little bit about myself, before we get down
to the business of things, but I suppose that’s too much to
ask. Not exactly sure why you couldn’t grant an old boy
a few moments to ruminate on his wild-oat-sewing days
but, you know, whatever. What? Mmm, hmm. Mmm, hmm. Okay. Okay. Okay.
No, not that one, I want the other one. No, the other one...You know the one I like...That one. With the thing and the stuff...Okay. Okay good. Wow, so sorry about that. You’d think it wouldn’t be so
hard to order an egg 'n cheese on a toasted bagel, but,
apparently, you’d think wrong. Ok. So. The dying thing. Yes. It wasn’t even about “not wanting to be alive,” really. Or about not wanting to serve the time, I must tell you. Frankly, I think I might’ve liked a good romp with some
“bad boys” in a some sort of avant-garde, minimum security
lockup situation; being someone’s “bitch” oddly posed
a kind of tingling-sensation thrill for me… I didn’t have a problem with any of that. It’s just that
there’d been a lot of tension between me and you—
the people—of late. And it’s not so much that I wanted to
get out of my sentence, or that I wanted to quote die
unquote, it’s just that I wanted to not be alive anymore, given
the somewhat uncomfortable nature of my
relationship with you people. Again, it wasn’t because of the whole “going to prison thing,”
because, as I told you, it actually had a kind of voyeuristic
appeal for me. But because, well, I don’t know how
to say this so I’m just going to come right out and say it— You were making me feel extremely uneasy and quite
guilty about the whole quote Enron situation unquote. And I thought to myself well, Ken, you’re in a bit of a pickle. Because, like I said, I didn’t want to “die.” And not that
I thought I was going to go to H-E-double-hockey-sticks,
but there seemed to be some sort of a consensus around
the water cooler that I was. And even though I couldn’t
possibly conceive of how or why this would happen,
I thought to myself, “Okay, you know it’s not going to,
but what if it did?” Can you imagine ME, in H-E-double-hockey
sticks??? I’ve heard from a few that it’s not so pleasant. I mean—the devils! And—and—and the rocks! And the ragged clothing! And the heat, my god, the heat! Sir, you have a call on line two? What is it? I’m in the middle of an interview here, for
Christ’s sake. I’m sorry sir, it’s Janelle over at Class ‘n Sass Day Spa?
She wants to confirm your appointment for this afternoon for— Confirm! Confirm it, fine good. Yes, sir, she just wants to confirm that it’s for a back wax
AND a colon cleanse— Yes, Rochelle, that’s enough, confirm it— Right but she just wanted to make sure I told you that
you really need that cleanse, it’s been two weeks
since your last and she said she doesn’t want to think
about how full of shit you’re going to— ROCHELLE! CONFIRM IT, DAMN IT, JUST CONFIRM IT! :::crickets chirping. Papers being shuffled. Throats being cleared::: Sorry, where was I? Oh, right, I couldn’t go to hell. But, well, thing was, I also knew I just couldn’t take this
whole crazy guilt thing. My mother—ostensibly of the
Christian persuasion—I believe, and I really do believe this,
was a Jew in another life. I kid you not! I’ve known it since Day One with her. Day One! The way the woman would rack on the guilt! It would
be impossible for her to not have been the Shiksa’d
reincarnation of a Jewish mother. Of course, she and the rest of my family kept this a
secret, as we were living in Tyrone, Mississippi.
And a Jewish mother in Tyrone, Mississippi is like,
well, like a beautiful piece of lox on a BLT…it just doesn’t fit. But, believe me—that woman was a Jew, through and through. “Ken, why don’t you ever call your mother?” “Ken, would it have killed you to marry a nice Jewish girl?” “Ken, why can’t you make as much money as that
Bill Gates fellow?” So this guilt shtick—it’s been something I’ve had to deal
with my whole life. And with her, it was one thing,
I mean, I guess I owed her something; I did, as she loves
to tell me “take 36 excruciating hours to be born.” But with you people it was like, “Hey! What did I ever do
to you?” and “What did I do to deserve this, from you of
all people?” and “Back off, you’re going to give me
a heart attack!” And, I mean, I don’t want to blame you people, or say
that you quote necessitated unquote my fake-death
but, well, thing of it is, you’re not so quote blame free unquote. Do you’ve any idea how you made me feel? Do you?
Like a bad person—like a terrible person, even! I would
just sit up at night thinking, “Well, they just hate me, don’t they?”
And you might think I wouldn’t care what you thought about
me, that I’d be able to act rationally, and realize that you
must be transferring problems in your own lives on to me,
and that unwarranted hatred expressed toward me really
had nothing to do with me, and I had nothing to feel guilty about,
it was just your own problems, or that you just must be obscenely
jealous of me—as most rightfully are, I do have a pin-ball machine
in my bathroom!—but you’d think wrong! Ever since I was a kid,
and the boys would taunt be with that loathsome, despicable, not
even terribly inventive nickname, “Ken Gay,” I’ve been something of
a sensitive, well, to use their ever so eloquent terminology, a
“sensitive pansy.” So when you started gratuitously laying into
me about that Enron stuff, I just said, “ENOUGH. I cannot take this anymore.” “It brings back too many bad memories of being made
to feel like a bad son if I didn’t have seconds and thirds
of matzo balls AND kugel AND brisket. Well, excuse me if
I didn’t want to clog my arteries with fat and someday have a heart attack." "Just excuse the shit out of me!” Anyway. So I couldn’t take the guilt. My therapist would say I was
“playing the victim” but you know what? I WAS THE VICTIM. The victim of you people. So, really, I didn’t have much of a choice. I thought, ok, I could smuggle my way out of the country
but then, what the hey am I going to do? They’ll just reel
me on back for my sentencing and that’s no good because
I’ll just feel even guiltier—emotionally and legally—even though I’m not. So that wasn’t going to do. And then it hit me: Fake your own death, Ken, fake your own death! How did I do it? Oh, you know I can’t tell you that… Why not? WHY NOT?? Because a magician never reveals his secrets, that’s why! No. You’re not going to get it out of me. I don’t care if you hold my whole family hostage. I don’t care if you tickle torture me. You’re not getting my secret. The only way I’d tell you how I faked my own death
is if you double dog dared me. Now, no, don’t you say that— Don’t you dare say the ‘d’ word— Don’t you dare say the say the double-D word— Son of— Okay, first, what I had to do, is I had to get out of Texas.
The heat there is oppressive in the summer and I didn’t
want my best friend Bushy—that’s what I call him, ‘Bushy’—
to be implicated. So I packed up the family station wagon and I got the
wife and I said: Honey, we’re going to Wally World! I’m only kidding, of course, that’s a line from my favorite
movie, National Lampoon’s Vacation. What I actually said was,
"Linda, get in the damn car, we’re going to Colorado." So we finally get there and I have to, you know,
wine and dine the old ball and chain for a bit
because I was, after all, about to “widow” her. And then, the big night comes and of course, I have
those old opening-night jitters. I could barely pay
attention to my “last supper” [hee-hee] and I kept having
to excuse myself from the table because, and I kid you not,
I felt like I was going to toss my cookies. I did! I really almost did ! But, as it turned out, I did not toss my cookies. So that worked
out well. I just, I just really hate the smell of vomit,
and even after you brush your teeth you can still taste it,
for like, I don’t know, days. But I didn’t throw up so
I was REALLY happy about that. Anyway so we get home and Linda and I are getting
ready for bed and, naturally, I slip her a couple Ambien
with her nightcap. That woman is SUCH a light-sleeper,
and I didn’t want to take any chances. In fact, this one time,
I thought she was out cold, so I started, you know, just
because, it’s like, why not? Might as well, you know?
So I start, you know, and she all of a sudden wakes up
and is all like “I’m going to divorce you for everything
you’re worth you sick, son of a—” Right, sorry. Kind of went off on a tangent there.
Anyway, I slip her the Ambiens and she’s out cold.
So I go to the toolshed and grab what I like to call my
quote decoy unquote. In other words, I grabbed the guy I’d recently pegged
as looking enough like me that people—my wife, the cops, Billy O’Reilly, etc—
would take him for me, who I’d subsequently shot and
kept on ice for the last few days.
You know who it was? Tom Bosely! Tom Bosely! The father from Happy Days! It worked out perfectly, actually. Thing is, I’ve always had an
axe to grind with Tom. I know I’m going to fry for saying this
and I’ve never really admitted it to anyone, anyone but God, but…
I just absolutely HATED Happy Days. Hated it! Oh, c’mon! 1. Ritchie was the biggest goody-two shoes I’ve
ever met. EVER. What a freaking sycophant. Ick. Made me freaking sick.
2. What kind of a name is Potsie? Did his mother have an
affinity for potted plants? 3. Where I come from, you hit a Jukebox,
you’re goin’ downtown, okay? And since when does the men’s
room of a diner suffice for an “office,” huh? “Step into my office,” ick.
Freaking gag me. So anyway, I’ve got Tom Bosley, and he’s dead. So I slide him into bed next to my wife and then
I just take off running. I run faster than I’ve ever run before. EVER. Finally, I stop running. It’s been about ten minutes since
I started and I’m tired and my knee’s starting to act up and I’m
only about three blocks from the docks, where I was headed. So I say to myself, “What’s the harm in walking
the rest of the way?” “Since when is walking a crime?” So I reckon that it’s not and that I should stop beating
myself up about not being in good enough shape to run the whole way—
I’ve always struggled with setting unattainable goals and then
punishing myself for not being able to reach them; my therapist
says it all stems from my Oedipus complex, which I, frankly, think is bull shit.
I just want my mommy to be proud of me and for my father to die.
Anyway, I walk the last few blocks. So I get to the docks and I meet this guy named Snakes (I should mention that I (absolutely) HATE SNAKES!) Sounds like a shady deal but Snakes is actually quite
a stand up fellow I used to work with at Enron-ay
(Got to ixnay the ame-nay ropping-day; this oom-ray
ould-cay be ugged-bay). So I get on the boat and Snakes hands me a
duffle bag and says “Get in.” And I’m thinking, “Hmm, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.
I mean, it’s not that Snakes isn’t a great guy but in the past
he hasn’t always been trustworthy, and here he’s handing me a duffle bag and saying ‘Get in’.” But I say to myself, “K—that’s what I call myself, ‘K’—throw caution
to the wind! You only live once, old boy, you might as
well live DANGEROUSLY!” And then, to really pump myself up, I ask Snakes if he
happens to have “Eye of the Tiger” on his iPod. He doesn’t so I start to play the tune of it in my head
and get in the duffle bag—all very “dangerous.” :::Wink::: So I get in, and he puts me under the deck. I must’ve passed out then
, because when I woke up, we’d arrived at: MY FREEDOM. You know where we were? A place no one would ever think to look for me. EVER. I place where, frankly, no one would want to
come looking for me. THE JERSEY SHORE. At first, I totally balked. I said, “SNAKES!” “SNAKES!” “How the hell will I ever survive here, huh?!” “I might’s well have gone to hell, you fucking idiot!” Then Snakes rubbed a chloroform-soaked rag
over my face and I calmed down a little bit. When I came to, I started to think “Okay, K, just relax.
You’re going to give this a chance. And if you don’t like it
after a few days, you can, I don’t know, come back to life.”
I wasn’t sure how I was going to pull that off, seeing as
though everyone thought I was dead, but I figured it would
somehow involve another attack on Happy Days, so I was
happy to accept that challenge. I’ll tell you now, it was rough going at first. When you’re
used to luxuriating in the Hamptons…the adjustment
to Jersey iss not easy. But after a while. And I’m hesitant to admit this, but you seem like a trustworthy
guy who wouldn’t divulge a secret of this magnitude: I started to… LOVE THE JERSEY SHORE! Of course, now thinking about it, I’m getting all excited
and can’t really articulate how AMAZING it is! But, lucky for you… You scallywag, you… I’ve created a Flick’r account! I find it helps illustrate the AMAZING time I’m having. Ok, let’s just get right down to it. I’ve made some amazing friends here: Me and my boys I’ve experimented with alternative modes of transportation: Me and my chopper I've tried new things: Me eating funnel-cake. Funnel-cake! I’ve started getting in shape: Me and Tina at Jazzercise I’ve enjoyed shitty baseball teams: Me and Paulie, at the game big game I remarried: Me and my woman, Donatella I had a kid: Me and the chip of the ole block I’ve explored my sexuality: Timmy Ricky Jim As you can see, it’s really all been just fantastic. FANTASTIC. Shoot; look at the time. I’ve got that back wa— um, I mean, I’ve got body
building session, down at the gym. Got to, ah, work on the ole delts...wail on the ole quadri...
strings...things...beat down the...the, uh... Okay, listen, you got me. I’m getting my back waxed. There. I said it. Just, just please don’t say anything about it; if
something like this got out, it could ruin me. I know you won’t say anything, guy. Just promise me you won’t. Say it. Say “I promise I won’t say anything about your back waxing.” Okay, thanks. Really appreciate it. You know, it’s just that
I’m kind of a high profile figure and you know how the media
would have a field day with that. Me. Getting my back waxed. Okay, now I’ve really got to go. Good talkin’ to ya. And remember: ixnay on the ack-bay ax-way hing-tay.

Bye.

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