Obituary - Dawson Wohler

by Dawson Wahler,  3.24am 10th January 2021


          Dawson Wohler (2000 - 2020), better known by his screen name @dawtismspeaks, was a creature of habit. Every morning, his alarm would sound at 9:00 AM sharp. And, every morning at 9:00 AM sharp, Dawson would haul all two hundred and forty pounds of his being out of bed, down the

stairs to his kitchen, where he would then put the coffee on and set about making his first, and only,

meal of the day.

          His breakfast was always the same: a five egg quesadilla stuffed with spinach and Mexican™  cheese. This, as the name may lead some readers to believe, was not a quesadilla made of eggs, but rather a quesadilla filled with eggs. He had once experimented with adding salsa, but doing so made such a

mess that he vowed never to do it again. Dawson was scrupulous about such things.

          The quesadilla press in which he cooked his breakfast was a Christmas gift from his mother and father. It resembled nothing so much as a red clam with a coal black interior, upon which intrepid chefs were to set their creations for cooking. His parents bought it for him two years ago, and he had scarcely eaten anything other than quesadillas since.

          With his breakfast made and the coffee brewed, Dawson would invariably turn his attention to

his work. He was employed as a news logger; a very nearly extinct profession that entails nothing more than comparing a computer generated transcript against the previous day’s television news broadcast.

          In the 1980s, well before Dawson’s time, news loggers were to report to a central news logging location where they would watch yesterday’s news on VHS tape, to be compared against a transcript written by an intern. But with advancements in computer technology, the interns could be safely done away with, the broadcasts recorded digitally, and the work of comparison done from home.

          This suited Dawson perfectly well. He was never one for water cooler chats, and he much

preferred the glow of his lava lamps to the bright fluorescent lighting of an office.

          The job afforded him plenty of time to post on Twitter, where he had, by his own estimation,

become quite popular. One of his better performing tweets read, “I know everyone has a cross to bear, I only wish God hadn’t made mine my voluptuous dumptruck [sic] ass.” This jape was accompanied by a particularly forlorn looking emoji, which only heightened the hilarity. The tweet received five likes.

          Such was the condition of young Dawson in those days. A routine life of relative leisure spent alternating between war footage, transcripts of war footage, and Twitter. The most difficult part of his work was correcting the spelling on the dozens of Iraqi and Pakistani names the computer never got

quite right, but even this was a trifling annoyance in the scheme of things.

          His only real source of stress was the looming fear that either his mother, his father, or, worse

yet, his mother and his father would stop by unannounced and see what had become of their only son since he had struck out on his own. This had only happened twice, though both times had been equally traumatic for all parties involved.

          The first time, his father knocked on the door bearing with him a homemade lasagna; Dawson’s favorite. However, when Dawson’s father arrived, Dawson was just getting settled into a jerry-rigged contraption meant to simulate the feeling of having a beautiful woman straddle your face. The apparatus was composed of two pillows, a roll of duct tape, and a banana peel. It had appeared to

Dawson in a dream. The vision of his son enmeshed in this horrible machine still haunted Dawson’s father’s nightmares.

          The second time, he was under the spell of an unknown (and perhaps unknowable) fungus that

had slowly but surely taken root in the air ducts of his home when his mother appeared at the door. He informed her that Dawson was away, and that she should return at a later date.

          Both his mother and his father seemed to have learned to call ahead after that.

          Save for these two noteworthy disturbances, Dawson deviated from his routine only on

weekends and bank holidays, when he would sleep in a full half hour to 9:30 AM, cook breakfast (a quesadilla, of course), and spend the remainder of his day catching up on his two favorite television programs: Supernatural and The X-Files. He was known to watch the latter sans pants, being a

particularly devoted fan of Gillian Anderson’s.

          So, really, it ought not come as a surprise to anyone that, when his beloved quesadilla press malfunctioned one morning and sent a thirty thousand watt bolt of electricity arcing across the kitchen and into Dawson’s cranium, he simply let out a weary little sigh, stepped out and away from his smoldering body, and kept right on living.

          It was not rage that kept him tethered to the mortal world, nor was it any deep, Romantic sense

of regret or longing for a lost love. No, it was merely this: habit. He just didn’t know any other way to

be except alive.

          And so, Dawson spent his first day of undeath logging the news. The footage flashed by, and he dutifully ensured that the text of the AI’s transcript matched the words of the Mujahideen fighters on

the screen. He even found the time to fire off some tweets that did reasonably well, averaging three

likes each.

          He continued on like this for some time; making his quesadillas, stepping over his own

decaying body, and going about his business as if nothing had changed. No one even knew he was

dead--physically, that is--for three days. For that is when his mother and father stopped by, unannounced. 

          At first, when their knocks went unanswered, Dawson’s parents assumed that he was either

trying to extricate himself from some new machine’s loving embrace, or maybe to banish another fungal demon from his prefrontal cortex and were content to wait. But as time drew on, they began to suspect something was amiss. Seeing no other option, his father retrieved the key Dawson kept “hidden” beneath a garden gnome and entered the house.

          They found him on the kitchen floor. Funereal gas distended his already pendulous gut to what, under different circumstances, would have been comical proportions. Flies thrummed round his mouth. Fleshy yellow maggots squirmed in the soft flesh of his eyes, gorging themselves on a buffet of

vitreous jelly. His mother wept. His father called the coroner.

          Dawson is survived by his mother, his father, and his Twitter account. Visitation will be held on Thursday, December 18, 2020. from 4:00 - 7:00 PM at the James-Aickman Funeral Home. Funeral

services for Dawson will be held at 1:00 PM in the chapel of Bear Creek Lutheran Church. Burial will

follow in Bear Creek Cemetery. Dawson will be awake at 9:00 AM sharp the following day.