Unless you’re leaving a legacy like this bloke, change how you’re living immediately. This bloke, of course, being Uncle Bunky (real name: Randall Jacobs) – loose codger who the AVClub has posthumously knighted “A Shit-Kicker Named Uncle Bunky”. Quite appropriate once you read into it for yourself.
Settle in for what may possibly be the best thing you’ll ever read about anyone taking “a dirt nap” – Uncle Bunky’s own words, not ours. I know it’s a moderately long one, but I promise the last paragraph is life-affirming and hilarious enough to make it all worth it.
PHOENIX – Randall Jacobs of Phoenix died at the age 65, having lived a life that would have sent a lesser man to his grave decades earlier. His friends called him RJ, but to his family he was Uncle Bunky AKA The Bunkster. He told his last joke, which cannot be printed here, on May 4th 2020.
Uncle Bunky burned the candle, and whatever else was handy, at both ends. He spoke in a gravelly patois of wisecracks, mangled metaphors, and inspired profanity that reflected the Arizona dive bars, Colorado ski slopes, and various dodgy establishments where he spent his days and nights. He was a living, breathing “hang loose” sign, a swaggering hybrid of Zoni desert rat, SoCal hobo, and Terruride ski bum.
A prolific purveyor of Bunky-isms such as “Save it, clown!” (or “Zeebo” if he was in a mood), he would mercilessly tease his “goombatz” nephews with nicknames such as “mud flap” and “style master”. Just days after his beloved cat Kitters passed away, he too succumbed to “The Great Grawdoo”, leaving behind a vapour trail of memories and a piece of sage advice lingering in his love ones’ ears: “Do what Bunky say. Not what Bunky do.”
RELATED: The 101 Funniest Nicknames To Put Your Mate In His Place.
For all his chaotic energy and hysterical charm, he had a gentle soul. A night out with Bunky could result in a court summons or a world-class hangover, but his friends and family would drop whatever they were doing to make a trip out to see him. His impish smile and irreverent sense of humour were enough to quell whatever sensibilities he offended. He didn’t mean any harm; that was just Bunky being Bunky.
When the end drew near, he left us with a final Bunky-ism: “I’m ready for the dirt nap, but you can’t leave the party if you can’t find the door.” He found the door, but the party will never be the same without him.
In lieu of flowers, please pay someone’s open bar tab, smoke a bowl, and fearlessly carve out some fresh lines through the trees on the gnarliest side of the mountain.
Poetry. Pure poetry.
