Even dead, conservatives are more lively than other people

I thought you guys would enjoy the obituary that Michael “Flathead’ Blanchard wrote for himself a short time before he died at the end of a long, and apparently quite enjoyable, life (emphasis mine):

Michael “Flathead” Blanchard

1944 – 2012

A Celebration of the life of Michael “Flathead” Blanchard will be held on April 14th, 3 pm 8160 Rosemary St, Commerce City. Weary of reading obituaries noting someone’s courageous battle with death, Mike wanted it known that he died as a result of being stubborn, refusing to follow doctors’ orders and raising hell for more than six decades. He enjoyed booze, guns, cars and younger women until the day he died.

Mike was born July 1944 in Colorado to Clyde and Ethel Blanchard. A community activist, he is noted for saving the Dr. Justina Ford house from demolition and defending those who could not defend themselves. He was a Republican delegate, life member of the NRA, founder and President of the Dead Cats MC. He loved music.

Mike was preceded in death by Clyde and Ethel Blanchard, survived by his beloved sons Mike and Chopper, former wife Jane Transue, brother Stephen Blanchard (Susan), Uncle Don and Aunt Cynthia Blanchard(his favorite); Uncle Dill and Aunt Dot, cousins and nephews, Baba Yaga can kiss his butt. So many of his childhood friends that weren’t killed in Vietnam went on to become criminals, prostitutes and/or Democrats. He asks that you stop by and re-tell the stories he can no longer tell. As the Celebration will contain Adult material we respectfully ask that no children under 18 attend.

Published in Denver Post on April 12, 2012

You can learn a bit more about the delightful (and quite ornery) Mr. Blanchard here.

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  • 11B40


    My father died back in the last ’72. He was the gravitas of our family and never appeared anything but rock-solid to my young eyes. So, we had the then traditional Bronx Irish Catholic wake in a funeral home on one corner of an intersection and bars on the other three. Over the three days, activities included time in the the funeral home punctuated by periods of being taken to the various bars by my father’s friends and associates most of whom I had never even met beforehand.

    Now, my father lived in interesting times. He had come to this country from impoverished southwest Ireland in 1927, in plenty of time for the Great Depression. So, from his Teamster “brothers”, there were stories of union organizing and pulling scabs off coal trucks, the latter exercise including a fairly sophisticated set of tactics especially a newspaper’s non-reading uses.

    As a respite from the drudge of the depression, my father found refuge in the U.S. Army for a four-year stint as a Browning Automatic Rifle infantryman on Saipan and Peleliu. So, those stories my father had the good sense not to relate to his progeny finally became available.

    From the (Ancient Order of) Hibernians and the (Up the) Republicans came the stories of perhaps why my father abandoned the land of his birth and why that history remained Top Secret/Special Compartmentalized Information for so many years.

    From his years in New York’s construction industry came tales that ranged from the building of the Empire State Building to the World Trade Center’s two towers.

    Thus it was that I realized how my twig had been bent and why my apple didn’t want to be far from that tree.