Hopefully Not Anytime Soon


Someday (hopefully not anytime soon) the lead singer of Crash Test Dummies will die, and we’ll all solemnly post the Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm video on our social media feeds, and we’ll all talk about how much that song meant to us, and most likely it probably did mean something, but c’mon man it’s the shitty Crash Test Dummies, but none of us will have the guts to say, C’mon man it’s the shitty Crash Test Dummies, because c’mon man, that’s a shitty thing to do in a moment like that (which I hope isn’t anytime soon).

When he finally passes (his name is Brad Roberts, by the way, which of all the Crash Test Dummy names is the Crash Test Dummiest), we’ll think about how we hadn’t thought of him in like twenty-some-odd years, except for those times Dumb and Dumber was on Spike TV and it was on the scene where Lloyd Christmas and Harry Dunn fight and then Harry angrily drives off in the giant dog Shaggin Wagon and Lloyd cries on the highway while Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm plays in the background.

When Brad Roberts finally passes, we’ll think about the time we worked that summer job selling CD’s with that frat guy named Gene who always played the Dumb and Dumber soundtrack (like every fucking shift), and took long breaks because girls would come by to see him and bring him Whopper Jr.’s (like six of them) and every time Gene asked us if we wanted one, we’d say no thanks because those girls didn’t bring those for us and we had our pride to think about. We’ll remember how Gene was a stuttering dork in high school and how the guys on the wrestling team called him Juh-juh-Gene and how we secretly felt bad for him, even though we laughed every time Cam and Mike and Kenny mocked him behind his back, but because we’re small people who really like girls and Whopper Jr.’s we’ll spend the rest of the summer refusing to be happy for him.

When the lead singer of Crash Test Dummies finally passes, the skies will open up—not just clouds parting but the sky will literally split down the middle and slide open like the automatic door in that place where we sold CD’s that summer—and we’ll suddenly remember Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm wasn’t even on the soundtrack, even though it was clearly in the movie. We’ll remember how much Gene loved “Crash” by the Primitives, which was on the soundtrack, which we’ll only remember because it’ll play as the sliver in the sky grows wider and wider until the entire earth is covered in a light that’ll make us say, Holy shit that really is a heavenly light, and then all of the people who posted that Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm video on their social media pages will float out of their shoes and pants and skirts and their shirts—and their bras, and socks, and underpants will float off their bodies and then we’ll watch a naked Gene float into the sky and we’ll realize why those girls were so keen on bringing him Whopper Jr.’s every fucking shift, and we’ll finally have the wherewithal to be gracious towards Gene even though he was a stuttering dipshit who bragged about fingerblasting those girls who brought him those Whopper Jr’s every chance he got. Good for him, we’ll say (as every Whopper Jr. in every Burger King floats into the heavens, like some UFO armada leaving a battle-scarred landscape for their home planet, where they’ll be welcomed as heroes). Seriously—a guy like that deserves to be raptured while the rest of us are left to shuffle our feet down here. (But hopefully not anytime soon) 

JEFF CHON

From Jack London to Mac Dre, from Jason Kidd to Gertrude Stein, The East Bay Review showcases real art by real artists from the East Bay and beyond. We strive to put good work into the world, committed to nurturing the artistic and literary community by featuring the best and brightest in literary fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and art. 

Jeff Chon is the editor-in-chief of The East Bay Review. His work has appeared in The North American Review, Blunderbuss, Heavy Feather Review, and The Portland Review among others.