Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Death comes thrice
I've been out of loop due to no interweb at the trailer park. That's part of being trailer trash that I'm getting used to, pal. But I'm sitting here at Coffee Bean logged on like a common vagrant, and I read about the beloved Sports Machine operator, George Michael died. Not to be confused with George Michael, the more arsty, bathroom humping half of WHAM. Poor guy. He was on late sunday nights pressing imaginary buttons on a crappy green screen while it sounded like the whole show was dubbed in Turkey. Sports this, jocks that, blah, blah blah. I watched it anyway because back then, we only had 3 fucking channels. That's all. But what this dying really means is another tri-fecta of death. First it was Brittany Murphy, now Mr Michael. Who's next? Who leaves this mortal coil and completes the circuit? Maybe it's old man Farve who takes a licking on an icey LAAAAAAMMMMBBBOOOOO FIELD. Or maybe Lindsay Lohan blows out a nostril and heart valve simultaneously on New Years Eve. Could it be one of the Jersey Shore guidos head literally fawkin pops. That Charlie Sheen is a loose cannon. Dear god in heaven, I wish it was Carrot Top. I've been hoping it was him forever. My previous picks of chain smoking Swayze and Ted Kennedy have sadly, passed away, so I've got nothing. I'm grasping at straws. I know I'm forgetting about someone. Who can it be? If you guess correctly, you get 1 free bar of Surf Wax, and a douching in Holy Water, you voodoo loving spawn of satan. Time's a tickin, lock them in TODAY!