Hey, quick, what’s the significance of the number 43? “Well, that’s easy,” you say. “It’s the atomic number of technetium, Richard Petty’s racecar number, and the largest non-McNugget number—that is, the largest number of Chicken McNuggets that can’t be ordered by adding together any combination of 6-, 9-, or 20-pack boxes.” Wrong, idiot! The significance of 43 is that it’s the age that I am, and that a bunch of 42-year-old creeps and jerks and losers never got to be!
Elvis, for instance, was a hero to most but he was a guy who died taking a shit to me. Seriously, King, what are you really remembered for today? Having a brand synonymous with dying on the toilet, hanging out with a corrupt president in the Oval Office for reasons no one understands, and being a fat, bloated corpse. You’re basically the ’70s version of Breitbart honcho Steve Bannon. Go shoot a TV, hillbilly.
Why so furious, Billy Fury, you store-brand British Elvis knockoff? Are you furious that you dropped dead of a heart attack at only 42? You mad, bro? Didn’t see that coming? Your stage name might as well have been Billy Hypertension. A little on the nose, innit? It’s like Shakin’ Stevens dying of an epileptic seizure or Jimmy Nail dying of tetanus or Cliff Richard falling off a rocky precipice.
But I have to hand it to you, Ratt guitarist Robbin Crosby. You may be the only person ever to get AIDS and a heroin addiction and still somehow balloon to 400 pounds. Is it true the song “Round and Round” was written when someone asked you to describe your physique in two adjectives?
Kimbo Slice, you sound like some other country’s refreshing citrus fruit soda and you looked like a homeless Rick Ross. I liked your backyard brawling act better when it was called Bumfights. I’m not scared of you.
When Randy Savage died, people kept saying, “At least he’s with Miss Elizabeth now.” Boy, I hope that isn’t true, lady. Every time a dead wrestler so much as glances at you, he must angrily grab you by the wrist and yank you to another cloud. And there are a lot of dead wrestlers, so basically you’re in hell.
Speaking of dead wrestlers, Bruiser Brody, if you just had to get stabbed to death in a shower so badly, it really should have been by Nailz, that big guy in the orange prison jumpsuit who feuded with the Big Boss Man, not some masked, interchangeable tag-team jabroni named Invader 1. If Invader 1 had to murder anyone, it should have been Peter Tosh, who actually was killed in a home invasion. Do I really have to write your storylines for you dummies?
Louisiana governor Huey Long, you were an egomanical huckster salesman turned demagogue politician with delusions of grandeur, yet also a big dumb baby who couldn’t stand criticism from the newspapers and allied yourself with anti-Semitic, fascist-leaning talk-radio-style media to push your half-baked ideas. You were a foul-mouthed, boorish braggart with a penchant for body-shaming chubby ladies. Boy, am I ever so sorry someone shot you a month after you announced you were running for president. Am I ever. No one totally should have done that.
Speaking of presidential candidates getting gunned down, you’re always the runner-up, Robert “Bobby” Francis “RFK” Kennedy. Ever notice how in “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” Billy Joel sings “JFK! Blown away! What else do I have to say?!” and then doesn’t mention you at all? Wow, right? He couldn’t squeeze you into the rest of the song somewhere in between punk rock, Wheel of Fortune, and the rock and roller cola wars?
Don’t take this the wrong way, John Cazale, but I’m really, really, really glad you’re dead. I’m glad for me to outlive you, of course, but as I said, that’s the wrong way. I’m also glad for you that you’re dead. You did five films in six years that all got nominated for Best Picture—a couple of Godfathers, The Conversation, Dog Day Afternoon, and The Deer Hunter. If you were alive today, your chinless rat face would still be popping up alongside your pals Pacino and De Niro in awful crud like Jack and Jill and Dirty Grandpa. You’d break my heart, Fredo.
Gary Coleman, for you, I’ll keep it short. The only thing smaller than you was your bank account statement. The only thing shorter, your marriage. The only thing cuter, Emmanuel Lewis. My god, you must have shat your little diaper when he came along, a smaller, cuter, and soon to be more alive version of you. But at least you had the recurring catchphrase that continually delighted America: “I declare bankruptcy.”
Prince Albert, you got a lot of places named after you, such as Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, which I think is pretty cool because clearly I like insulting the dead. Know what else got named after you, though? A penis piercing. Penis piercing. All anyone thinks of now when they hear your name is a penis piercing, you penis piercing.
True story: When my wife was in Grade 8, she liked Married with Children and told her teacher she thought Ted Bundy was really funny, and her teacher got really mad. My wife getting yelled at is the only good thing about you. Screw you, Ted Bundy, you lousy pain in the butt!
Okay, real quick now because unlike you dead chumps, I have a life to live: In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes and Ernie Kovacs dying without paying any of his taxes. You sure don’t see me sticking it to my widow like that. Queen Mary I of England, they called you “Bloody Mary” because you were bloody awful, and if I look into a mirror and say your name three times, you still appear to be dead. Gilda Radner, the raddest thing about you is how alive you make me look by comparison to you. Pretty friggin’ rad! And cheer up, Rashaan Salaam, Orlando Thomas, Godfrey Myles, Lew Bush, Antonio Armstrong, and Chester McGlockton. For NFL players, you all got to reach late middle age.
Once again, unlike you stupid dopes, you are just such losers and suck so bad, and I’m a winner and suck either very good or not at all. You wretched sad-sack wretches. As usual, very much in contrast to you poor, dumb suckers, I’m too fast for the Grim Reaper and I will never get what’s coming to me!
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