I was introduced to Ivins’ particular brand of humor by Allen, whose death preceded Ivins’ by 12 long short years. Molly was 62. Allen was 37—I shuddered to realize how far behind me 37 is already.
These are the times, if I believed in a god, that I’d question god’s existence. What kind of mutherfucker takes Allen away, takes Molly away, and leaves the Shrub alive and in a position of unspeakable power? Moot, really, and a good thing that I don’t believe in a god.
I believed in Molly’s voice. I believed in Allen’s love. I believed in so much and still do. I mean, someone’s got to believe, deep down, in the continuance of life and love. What else is there?
Rest not in peace, Molly, but in joy and laughter. While I live, so will your legacy.