Well, another year has gone by, and I’ve outlived yet another crop of idiots. Yessiree, I’m thirty-nine friggin’ years old today, so read it and weep, all you losers and quitters from history who died at thirty-eight. Oh, you are so stupid. You have to be good to get to this age, and face it, you are no good.
What’s that? I got lucky? No, Roberto Clemente, you are lucky. You’re lucky your plane crashed while delivering supplies to earthquake victims in Nicaragua. Why? Because dying a martyr makes everyone remember only your talent and not that you were actually a real jerk while you were alive. You are the John Lennon of baseball, Roberto Clemente.
And I have good news for you too, Eddie Guerrero. Yesterday was Wrestlemania, and you faced a lot of competition, but you retained your title as World Cruiserweight Champion Deadest Wrestler. Congratulations on your hard-fought victory over life!
Speaking of great champions, let’s not talk about Sonny Liston. Let’s talk about Muhammad Ali, who I hope is standing over Sonny Liston’s grave right now, still yelling, “Get up and fight, sucker!” Because, as bad shape as Ali is in right now, Sonny boy, he could still take you any day. Because you took a dive and stayed down for like a 1.5-billion-count.
“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore?” Give me a break. There’s no coming back from the dead for you, Emma Lazarus.
Remember that Bon Jovi song “Bad Medicine,” Sam Kinison? Of course you do; you were in the video. Well, you know what else is like bad medicine besides your love, Sam Kinison? Getting in a head-on collision while driving your car, because they both kill you. Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhhhh!
Rhapsody in Blue? How about a rhapsody in screw you, George Gershwin?
Marie Prevost, you were a winner who became the doggie’s dinner. Which makes you a loser, unlike me, because—to borrow a phrase from your day—I’m the cat’s pyjamas!
Well, Harry Chapin, your prediction came true: The cat’s in the cradle with a silver spoon and some other garbage like that, and now you are just like your dad. Because your dad’s dead too. Although he outlived you by like, a lot. He only died four years ago, at 89. So you spent 30 years in heaven wondering, “When you comin’ home dad? I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then.” Well, good news: You’re both dead, like father, like son.
Now you, Dimebag Darrell—you’re my favorite death metal guitarist. What’s that? You’re really more of a groove metal guitarist? No, you’re definitely more of a death metal guitarist now. Trust me.
And here’s a tip for you, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole: Next time around, try playing a regular guitar instead of a ukelele if you want to play down the fact that you weigh like eight hundred pounds. Or maybe strap on a cello. Wow, I just can’t believe I outlived a fat Hawaiian guy who weighed like eight hundred pounds! Boy, who saw that coming? As a matter of fact, like eight hundred more people died in the time it took me to type your name. Try being smaller and having a smaller name next time, dummy.
Speaking of which, hey JFK Jr. and FloJo: RIP—and eff you.
Oh, Mary Wollstonecraft. I loved your Frankenstein. What? No, you wrote A Vindication of the Rights of Men and A Vindication of the Rights of Woman? Hey, did you ever get around to wrapping up the trilogy with A Vindication of the Rights of Ghosts? What’s the hold-up? Oh, yeah, that’s right. Well, c’mon. I’ll get out the ouija board and you can dictate. C’mon, lazybones.
Guillaume Apollinaire, meet Federico García Lorca. You have a lot in common. You both died at exactly the same age—13,953 days old. One of you died in the Spanish Flu Pandemic, the other in the Spanish Civil War. And nobody has any idea who either of you are. Good work keeping your names out there.
Remember how your wife said, “Let them eat cake,” Louis XVI of France? Well, I’m eating birthday cake today. What are you eating? Eat shit, Loser XVI of France.
Daniel Pearl, you are so—okay, no. Forget it. Sorry.
Corey Haim? More like Corey Lame. Oh yes. Now this is more like it. Oh, this one is especially sweet. I had to put up with girls slobbering all over you when I was 14. Now you’re gone, and all those 14-year-old girls are mine, all mine.
Once again, I’m alive and you’re dead. Way to go, idiots!
Filed under: Dead People Are Chumps | 2 Comments