Congratulations Last Living Ragtime Fan!

Lots of people love ragtime music in a poseur way, where they talk about doo-wopping and doing the Charleston. But not a one of them can hold a candle to you, the last living true ragtime fan. You remember being sandwiched between two flappers while you took occasionally hits of laudanum off of their tits, breaking only to do some sort of obscure ragtime dance that you don’t even want us to name here, for fear that young hipsters will acquire it and start doing it all the time, reducing its historical cache through constant re-display.

But you’re an old man. No one who was alive to enjoy it, aside from you, is really still around to talk about their love of ragtime. Which sucks, because all you ever really liked was ragtime, talking about ragtime and hating on the gays and the blacks.

Today, in a depressed funk at the fact that you can’t enjoy the first two things anymore, you’ll decide to go for a walk into the black-gay district of the city you live in and get your fill of the third. You’ll be able two minutes into a particularly hateful tirade directed at no one in particular when a young Dominican man will walk up to you and kiss you right on the mouth.

It’ll stop you from talking and your brain will explode in a symphony of light and sound and pleasure. You’ll smile for the first time in years and, falling silent, will take that Dominican man’s hand and follow him back to his apartment where he and his roommate will take turns fisting you in the ass. You’ll die a few hours later when the two of them simultaneously ejaculate inside you, finally at peace with the real you, the you you never knew.

Congratulations Last Living Ragtime Fan!