OBIT: Oliver Murdock Dead at 53, Just in Time to Avoid Apologizing for Anything Ever
By Caroline soon-to-have-my-last-name-back Murdock
Oliver James Murdock, 53, of Hartford, died last Tuesday after being struck by a Cybertruck in what authorities are calling a tragic accident and what I’m calling an abrupt and convenient escape from accountability.
Best known for leaving the fridge open, weaponizing incompetence, and insisting “that’s just how he talks” after offending every waiter we’ve ever met, Oliver exited this world in a spectacularly on-brand fashion: walking through a parking lot, nose in phone, mid-rant about how “cancel culture is out of control,” when a silent, angular slab of karma on wheels ended the monologue once and for all. Oliver died instantly and without suffering (unfortunately).
I do wish he’d made it to October—to see the Connecticut leaves change colors under a crisp autumn sky while being served divorce paperwork. But of course, Oliver found a way out of that too—just like he got out of dog-sitting my sister’s labradoodle, and every serious conversation we ever needed to have after 8 p.m.
But I take comfort in knowing he didn’t just vanish. He was physically launched five feet by a self-driving monument to overcompensation. I wasn’t there, but I like to think the Cybertruck paused afterward. Smoked a little. Maybe winked.
Oliver is survived by our two kids, Ethan and Lily, who inherited his sense of humor but—thank God—not his belief that emotional vulnerability is “for Democrats.” He is also survived by his mother, Dolores, who still insists he was a “good boy deep down,” though that “deep” may have been somewhere under permafrost.
Oliver is also survived by his secret family in New Jersey. That’s right. I know about Elizabeth. I found the plane tickets, the second Netflix account, and those Valentine’s Day photos at Applebee’s in Secaucus. Elizabeth, if you’re reading this: good luck explaining this one to your kids.
A memorial service will be held this Friday, assuming I can find the password to the group chat he kept locked “for fantasy football stuff.” In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you perform a random act of emotional maturity in his honor—something he never quite managed.
In death, Oliver remains consistent: still avoiding hard conversations, still nowhere to be found when it’s time to clean up the mess.
Rest in peace, Oliver. Or don’t.