I began shralping as a child. The shralp called to me in a way I cannot put into words. “Come here, it said, come shralp my shralpy shlopes”, it said. I suppose I just put it into words. But it called me in a way I cannot define. Like a lighthouse beckoning stormbeaten shralpers to safe harbor. The gnar was ubiquitous.
There were early bouts of shralpclad reveries and ironstonedwords from hardenedcrusters. #fear, #adversity, and #scared preceded sentiments of gratitude such as #fortunate, #grateful, and #soblessed. In absence of actual needs such as shralping food down my throat, shralping a roof over my head, or shralping a pay check, I confronted #reallife challenges that third world foreigners would never have to face – gravity, lead falls, overpriced pints at the local pub. The stage was set for an internal drama. The stage was the #mountains and #mytorturedbrain.
While friends and family onlooked in dismay, I shralped my few meager possessions at the nearest consignment shop (except for my #trustfund), and set forth on my journey. My #vanlife was packed, and like Rocinante I found myself Don Quixoteing forth. When the tables turned I worked on windmills. Cold and bitter two week stints of work provided funds for months and months of living in a @vonsparkinglot. The #shralplife is a challenging one. I learned to paint the sun in its true colors, the clouds in pastel pinks, I wrote as no human has ever writ before, and I invented a musical instrument out of dumpstered scrap metal. Tom Waits bought the instrument, or at least I got an email from him saying he would. Emails were my best friends in dark times like these.
The mountains provided, and like Gaston Rébuffat, I had earned fame and fortune few had ever imagined before. My ship set sail, and upon my shralping return, the masses lined up waiting for autographs. I had truly saved the civilized world from the shralping defeat of the #uninspired. Some people ignore life’s true meaning by working all the time at a #ninetofive, some people answer a deeper calling. When the time comes, what call will you shralpswer?
Shralpimus Shralpsinus lived a short but incredible life. In 2015, he disappeared into a Phish show with a bong, a didgeridoo, and a bag of mushrooms. He was never heard from again – so far. It’s only been a couple weeks, but we’re pretty sure he’s gone. Anyway, he redefined a sport which few have deigned to even acknowledge the existence of: Using Social Media Marketing to Obfuscate the Vacuousness of What You Do and Instill a Sense of Meaning in a Meaningless Pursuit Whose Sole Value Lies in Ignoring More Pressing Social, Political, and Global Matters Because They Have no Immediate and Obvious Answer and Can’t be Onsighted.
Rest in Piece, S. Shralpsinus. We are, forever, in your debt.