A Fitting Memorial:
The Rude Pundit wants Ray Charles on the fifty-dollar bill. Fuck Ulysses S. Grant, that drunk old son of a bitch. Put Ray Charles on the fifty. The Rude Pundit wants a gigantic Ray Charles sculpted into the side of Stone Mountain, Georgia. Blow up that goddamn celebration of racism there; send Robert E. Lee, Stonewall Jackson, and Jeff Davis tumbling into the piles of rock and dust of forgotteness. Instead, carve Ray Charles, at his piano, smiling, smiling, smiling. The Rude Pundit wants a street in every town named after Ray Charles - and not just some piece of crap road that runs through the shitty section of town. A real fuckin' thoroughfare so every goddamn time people drive on it, they can think, "It's ironic that Ray Charles couldn't drive on this road." Yeah, we can't stop there, either. We want some Ray Charles buildings - big fuckin' buildings where people work and live and fuck and kill each other and play music, too. Lots of 'em, stacks of fuckin' Ray Charles buildings. And statues, huge fuckin' statues, each of him at his piano, in parks, town squares, state capitols. Surrounded by gardens, great huge gardens of intensely fragrant flowers because, you know, Ray Charles couldn't see the flowers, but he sure as shit could smell them. Yeah, that's right. Gardens will be our living memorials to Ray Charles. Let's tear the image of Jesus off the crucifixes in churches and let's replace it with Ray Charles. Ray Charles hangin' on a cross, crown o' thorns on his head. He died for our sins, he is man, he is god. The original Raylettes will be our saints; we'll have holidays on each of their birthdays. And every Saturday night we can head to our churches and bow down and worship and wish, to the centers of our very souls, that Ray Charles will look down from heaven and bless our meager efforts.

Then, when all of that is done, maybe, just maybe, we'll create a legacy worthy of Ray Charles.