The leading cause of death right now is, apparently, fame. Farrah Fawcett lost her battle with anal cancer. Michael Jackson had a heart attack. Billy Mays went the way of the Billy Mays voodoun doll in my closet. What the fuck? Have all of our legitimate celebrities gotten that old? (I consider anyone associated with Twilight or bukkake in the back of Club Paris illegitimate. Katherine Hepburn was a star. Megan Fox is a slut.) So anyway, with all the bloated corpses gracing the headlines, I’d like to share my thoughts on this crowbait trifecta.
First of all, I’d like to extend my apologies to the family and friends of Ms. Fawcett. But it’s important to have a control group, and she’s it. Farrah had ass cancer, and as funny as that is, she made it serious. Every newspaper ran a story about her brave battle. Her family made headlines, trying to gather to be with her when her cancer had become terminal. And when she died, after months of a heroic stiff-upper-lip last stand, the country shed a collective tear. And it should have. She was a good actress and a sweet person.
Then fucking Michael Jackson bites the dust just to steal Farrah’s thunder. Two weeks ago, he was a pedophile, a crazy freak, a bad father and a washed up entertainer. Now he’s a goddamned gold-plated saint. Everyone who had no trouble making fun of him while he was alive is paying more attention to him than to Farrah, weeping on camera and Twittering their little emo friends. Bullshit! If he was an asshole yesterday, he’s an asshole today… albeit a bit stiffer. Why don’t we all just say what we ought to say: all we care about is whether the chimp will go to a zoo or flash Janet’s tits.
And Billy Mays… Well, I won’t split hairs with you. I fucking hate that guy all the way to the pits of hell. The screaming, the stupid hand gestures… I throw rhino shit at the tv and demand immediate smiting from god during every commercial break. Maybe he died because of my vitriolic insistence that he do so. Or maybe it’s because he was doing shots of Orange Glow and snorting rails of OxyClean off the coffee table, accidentally fell on an Awesome Auger, tried to repair the gaping, intestine-bubbling gut hole with some Mighty Putty, and died of gullibility. Either way, he’s with god now, no doubt getting judged to the balls for ruining tv.
See? Death should not change your views on a person. If they’re cunts, dying does not un-cunt them. And if they’re tragic figures, the tragedy doesn’t end with the flat-line, even if the last episode of Monk is coming on. Point and laugh or cry, respectively, no matter what the hypocrites around you are doing. That’s how you get genuine-human-being points, which you can collect and trade for fun prizes, including the ability to choose which three famous people die next.
