Archive for category The Poetry of Death

They Shoot Gorillas, Don’t They?

gorilla-irresistable-beauty

I do not want to talk about The Gorilla,

I want to not talk about The Gorilla.

I want to talk about not talking about The Gorilla,

I want to not talk about wanting to talk about not talking about The Gorilla.

I want to talk about The Gorilla,

Without having to talk about The Gorilla.

 

I want to be known as someone who doesn’t talk about The Gorilla,

By people who talk about The Gorilla,

As well as by people who do not talk about not talking about The Gorilla,

Along with the people who talk about not talking about The Gorilla.

 

I cannot talk about The Gorilla.

 

I cannot not talk about The Gorilla,

Without having to talk about The Gorilla,

In order to not talk about The Gorilla,

Among people who both talk and do not talk about The Gorilla.

 

She talks about The Gorilla,

In order to talk about The Gorilla.

I talk about her talking about The Gorilla,

In order to talk about not talking about The Gorilla.

 

We both talk about The Gorilla.

 

She doesn’t know not to talk about The Gorilla,

When she’s talking about The Gorilla.

I know that she doesn’t know to not talk about The Gorilla,

When talking about The Gorilla.

She should know better than to talk about The Gorilla,

When talking about The Gorilla.

 

He knows that I know that talking about her not talking about The Gorilla,

Is talking about The Gorilla.

He talks about me not talking about knowing that talking about not talking about The Gorilla,

Is talking about The Gorilla.

 

He talks about me not knowing that not talking about The Gorilla,

And talking about her talking about The Gorilla,

Are talking about The Gorilla.

 

We’re all talking about talking about or not talking about people talking or not talking about The Gorilla.

 

Even when we don’t talk about not talking about talking about not talking about The Gorilla,

We talk about The Gorilla.

4 Comments

Willow Tree

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(I’m lucky to know a young man by the name of Aidan O’Reilly.  He’s an incredibly talented spoken word artist.  This is his work)

I’m calmly sitting on this willow tree where i can see things clearly
Angry
But I’ll be banging my head against walls till somebody hears me
Up above the clouds
Looking down at the crowds that surround you
I’d pray this message got through but i never got to learn how to
So let’s all pray for change just to see our own reflections
Admire your looks in blood stained mirrors
Then look around at this ghost town that has drowned you
Run from the sound of the bodies hitting the ground
And wonder why they all fell through
Ignore the cracks and
Drive over broken backs of dead bodies to get to your America
They built the streets that they bleed in
It matches the seats in your cars
It matches the ink on your receipts
Their souls are lost in the stars
Watching
While you proudly give your cash
To corrupt corporations that run this nation
And hire children overseas but to hell with immigration
And i don’t know what you were expecting
But the devil is a white man in a business suit
Collecting

Can you see us?
The kids above the clouds looking down
Disappointed
Dying for your dinner
Questioning who the hell was appointed
Capitalist
Why are we okay with this?
We feed a machine that eats us daily
Speaking in dollars signs
Translated by consumption
Pumping in prescriptions to their children
Robbing them of their chemistry
Silencing their destiny
Forcing young minds to make televisions sets
You’ll find them entangled in suicide nets
Forgetting that they’re living behind Star-spangled bars
But we’ll just keep watching
Up here in the stars

So we just look down from our willow tree
Sadly
Wondering why we’re killing each other
Over land and people created equally
And our tears rain down
To water your plants
While you fill our lungs with smoke from your plants
Sending sin to the wise
Setting fire to willow oak skies
You are damning your deities
Sacrificing your sun
For oil driven dreams
But please…

Can you see us
Up above the clouds
Sitting calmly on our willow tree
Peacefully
Wishing you could see that our leaves are leaving me
Unwillingly
But let’s just sit down
And wait for around
To celebrate our American apocalypse
Ignoring the facts
While embracing our grave
So let’s just relax
And shout into the unremitting darkness
Home of the Brave!

4 Comments

Proposed Lyrics To Metallica’s “Unforgiven Four”

metallica

“Yes, we sell out. Every seat in the house. Every time we play. Anywhere we play.”

-Jason Newsted on VH-1’s Behind The Music: Metallica

Unforgiven Four

(Song begins sounding almost exactly like Unforgiven 3 in the hopes of capitalizing on earlier Metallica work and ensuring that the landscaping on Mr. Hetfield’s home in Malibu will be paid for well into the next century)

How could we know

Writing four-minute ballads-ah,

Would change our lives for-ever-ah?

Hired Bob Rock to change our course,

Sold trillions of records-ah,

Caused old metalheads

Senseless pain,

In our quest for Bentleys.

Been confused,

Always confused,

By the rage they’re feeling.

We…ARE…A…COM-MOD-ITY,

That’s…..what…you…want us….to be,

(What you want us to be)

(Chorus)

How come if we suuuuu-ck,

We make more money this way?

Stopped playing no-name clubs,

You should see our 401-Ks!

How can we go wrong?

This is the American Way,

How can we sell out?

This is how the game play—-dah.

People like to whine,

About how things have changed,

Distracts them from their lives,

To us it just seems strange.

We do what people waaaaa-nnn-tttt,

We have become unsure,

If we’ve always been a business,

What should we be Un-forgiven Forrrrrrrrr?

(Mediocre instrumental part that ham-handedly transitions from cannibalizing The Unforgiven 3 to regurgitating the first part of Unforgiven 2)

Lay beside me,

Try not to make me grin,

Commodity fetishism-mmmah,

Is surely not a sin.

We are rock icons,

We certainly do not care,

About your lives, about your ideas,

Just please don’t file share.

Lay Beside Me,

And I’ll tell you how things are done,

You act the part,

Hock an image,

None of this is true.

We are a consumer item

Just like Elmer’s Glue,

Well…they’ve been selling rock as revolution,

Since 1962,

If you can understand McDonald’s,

Then you understand what we do.

Yeah, you can understand what we do-ah!

(Chorus)

What we’ve done,

What we’ve sold,

You know the rules,

No one’s been rolled,

You hate the system,

But you participate too—ah.

Yeah…What we’ve felt,

What we’ve known,

Hegemonic mediocrity,

Etched in stone.

Behind our masks,

We are amused by youuuu-ah.

Before you call,

Lars a whore,

Then peddle your skills,

To buy seats on the floor,

Remind us again why you’re so pure,

And we’re The Un-forgiven Four.

(Mildly interesting but forgettable solo section that somehow meanders into a new chorus meant to put an end to this monstrosity of a song)

You think we’re old,

But we’ll survive,

In ten years you’ll get nostaligiccc-ah

Want to see us live,

Pay 400 dollars,

To hear us play The Unforgiven Five-ah.

Yeah…The Unforgiven…………..Five……

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4 Comments

Shame

sadness

 

This poem was sent in by “just Brandie” or Brandie Barnes, an occasional contributor to the comment section.  I found it moving, authentic and poignant…

You spit love from your mouth, Within the very same breath you whisper hate unto me…..My ears hear your Shame….. Do you lie only to believe these so called truths which you never knew but forced me to bare such filthy loads just for you. Trembling from the icy cold fingers that Stab deep into my heart I whisper no shame…..I pity you. you were born with a defect never once in your life will you be beautiful…born ugly your decaying a bad apple through and through……so rotten from the very core you claim to have a heart. Ugliness from head to bottom of your non existing soul. So go ahead spit love again from your mouth and watch as I smile turn my head and walk away from hate. My ears don’t hear the whisper of your shame.

35 Comments

The Sick Among The Purell

Dirty-Hands

 

“I have so many selves, I cannot contain them all” –Kobo Abe

 

Never enough hand sanitizer

Bottles and bottles everywhere

But not a drop to drink

A bathtub filled with antiseptic

For the terminally dyspeptic

And still not enough to drown in

 

Never enough hand sanitizer

To kill the sin of germs

To kill the pain of waking

To kill the dissonance and consonance

Of everyday hell

 

Never enough hand sanitizer

To sting the wound into unbeing

All factors beyond the control

Of those who wish to vanquish

And be vanquished

 

Never enough hand sanitizer

To ebb the fatal tide

As the mass of men lead lives of desolate calculation

Never to emerge from slumber

Even in our waking nightmare

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6 Comments

TWERK DAT GHANDI

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Announcer:  (A generic Midwestern radio voice straddles the line between sounding hip and offending sponsors by sounding too “edgy”)  We are back live on All The Hits Hot 107 The Flash.  Right now, we got that new song from rapper Lil Abner.  As you know, Lil Abner just broke up with his homies Yung Elderlyz and Kurt da Kiropractor from the multi-platnum selling hip hop group Dat Marketin’ Skeme.  And now, playaz and playettez, it’s time to TWERK DAT GHANDI……

(Standard hip hop beat plays behind an endless sample loop of Toni Basil’s “Mickey”)

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!!

TWERK DAT!!!!

TWERK DAT!!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!

Bald headed holy man

Ain’t got no Pakistan

Spizzard on a gin-sam

Wearin’ dem Pampers

Diana Moon Glampers

Got dirty clothes

Ghandi bring dem hampers

Ghandi like WUT

Tojo like WUT

WUT!!!!!!!

WUT!!!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!

TWERK DAT!!!

TWERK DAT!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!

G-G-G-ghandi in dat basement

Mixin’ up dat pavement

Thinkin’ ‘bout savement

Got a love fade back

Wearin’ dat snapback

Spleen like a relax

Drink some honey beeswax

Climin’ dem sleezstacks

Nero got no kneecaps

Ghandi like WUT

Broz Tito like WUT

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!

TWERK DAT!!!

TWERK DAT!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!!

Pound a ground licorice

Larva got dat chrysalis

Sippin’ on dat Sisyphus

Gold blackberry

Amoebic dysentery

Droppin’ dem bombs like

Matthew C. Perry

Obamacare survivor

Got dem Holy Diver

Runnin’ dat show like you

Sargent Shriver

Broken scapula

Count Dracula

Donatin’ dem kidneys

Jomo Kenyata

Mr. Roboto

Ghandi like WUT

Mussolini like WUT

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

WUT!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!!

TWERK DAT!!!!

TWERK DAT!!!!

TWERK DAT GHANDI!!!!!

WUT!

TWERK DAT GHANDI

WUT!

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5 Comments

I IS DAT GHANDI

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DEM PEACE FEELZ!!!!  AWWWWWWW!!!!!

Benevolence beNONviolence.  Peep DAT!

But dem sad times.  Dem sad sad timez.

Dat Ghandi SAD.

DAT Ghandi Cry.  Reelz teerz.

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!!!!! (that irony has replaced irony as the new irony)

Lulz Hitler…U FAIL!  LOL!!!!! Rascist MUCH!  L8TR H8TR!!!!!

Inb4 Do U even PEACE?

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!!!  (exhausted by the endless drumbeat of moronic repetition around you)

DEM GHANDI SLAMZ!!!!!!

DAT BRITI$$$$$$H!!!!       SMH.

I CAN HAZ PEICE FFS!!!!

I Is dAt GHANDI……Not Dat Nguyen! Dem Cowboyz FEELZ FTW!!!!

I Is dAT GHANDI and I haz come to free U but UB like WUT!

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!!! (trapped in an absurd, endless comedy where no one gets the punchlines)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!!! (the bile rising in your throat at the state of the state of YOLOphoria)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!! (the overpowering stench of atrophied brains)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!!! (numb to the things and people around you)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!!! (tired of cliché-on-cliché violence)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!! (overwhelmed)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!! (exasperated)

DO U EVEN FEELZ!!!! (anything)

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4 Comments

Soul of 5,000,000-Year-Old Neanderthal Found To Be A Forgery

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(The Dissection of The Soul In Three Parts)

Part 1

Bethlehem, Pennsylvannia-How much would you pay for the soul of a 5 million year old man?  10 million dollars?  20 million?  100 million?  What about a billion dollars?  10 billion dollars?  100 billion dollars?  A trillion dollars???

Would you give up the pinky finger on your left hand?  What about your right pineal gland?  Would you watch every episode of the television show Manimal?   Would you become a cannibal who injects himself with Dianabol?  Would you sell your children to a band of angry Saudis?  Would you trade in your mother for three broken down Audis?  Would you endure an hour-long attack from ravenous dogs?  Would you reprise Ray Milland’s role in the movie Frogs? Would you trade dentures with Martha Raye?  Would you spend Father’s Day with Marvin Gaye?  Would you elope with an antelope?  What about a cantaloupe?

Billionaire heiress Angelina Corpsegrinder did just that.  Corpsegrinder, the granddaughter of former President John F. Corpsegrinder, purchased the soul at a nearly incalculable price at an auction on Friday outbidding thousands of lustful members of the American aristocracy. Corpsegrinder now has, within her beady little hands, possession of the one object that proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that God not only exists, but also intends us to hear his outrageous and inconsistent demands.

Encased in glass in case of loss, this abandoned soul sits in a vault, collecting interest at nearly 8 percent.  Corpsegrinder has had the soul examined by thousands of religious icons and hundreds of other idle idols of the breathing class.  Their findings all point to one inescapable fact, that people, given the correct amount of compensation and fearing for the devaluation of their name and the deflation of their credibility, will say anything to remain unforgotten by strangers.  That we are conspiring against all logic and pinning our dreams and hopes upon an empty vessel is not important, what is important is that the conspiracy continues to hold true no matter how vengefully its core fiction has been used.

Thousands have filed past a replica of this soul in the Museum of Spirit, Fellowship and Other Inane Cruelties.  For years, it was thought that this replica was the only soul alive in captivity.  Many believed that, in nearly every case, when one expired, the soul passed into another realm leaving only a husk of body in some embarrassing pose.  And teeth.  Now, thanks to the generous nature of those who possess most of the world’s resources, we can rest assured that a real soul exists.

The soul originally belonged to a Neanderthal named Arnold Mulligan.  In his haste to consume the flesh of a recently slaughtered pig, Mulligan’s soul fell out of his body and fell into a tar pit somewhere south of Tupelo, Mississippi.  After being discovered some years back, the soul was passed to different collectors in high stakes poker games.  It eventually fell into the clutches of former Presidential candidate Adali Stevenson and has languished in a coffee can in his basement since 1964.  But, that is not important.  Who needs chain of evidence when there isn’t even the evidence of a chain?

Finally, a pawnbroker from Jamaica, Queens named Arthur Leo Sclerosis slumped into the vault and examined the artifact.  It was elliptical.  No bigger than a marble.  It had been poked and prodded by the finest pokers and prodders on this planet.  Its verification had been peer reviewed by peers and reviewers who had all made tenure at the finest educational slaughterhouses on the planet.   They had stood in line for hours to see it, all seeking to be part of a truth that, as keepers of truth, they were free to invent.  Some of them, the rebels, tried to destroy it, but Plato had told them long ago that it couldn’t be destroyed, so they stopped.

Sclerosis didn’t care.  He was dying and had the freedom that only the truly condemned and utterly forgotten can ever gain.  His body, ravaged by disease and disrepair, crawled towards the altar upon which the soul had been placed.  He made several silly motions with his hands to confuse the guards into thinking he was part of a group of fiction providers larger than himself, then he dove face first into the case, shattering the shatterproof glass and freeing the soul from the most recent in its series of cells.

The alarms sounded.  Everyone on earth froze and locked their eyes upon him.  Were it destroyed, they’d have to go back to having faith in something implausibly stupid.  Were it destroyed, the whole edifice would plunge headlong into a nothingness of materials careening off one another and going nowhere in particular for an undetermined period of meaningless time.  Were it destroyed, they’d have to accept the possibility that God or whatever creative force begat us from Its stomach was cruel enough to simply leave us in the middle of an endless wilderness of despair with no map to get home.   Were it destroyed, they might look in the mirror and come face to face with a walking pile of animated flesh killing time between now and when its life functions had ceased.

“Please…we beg you!  Leave us at least the illusion of stability in this demented nightmare of an existence!!!!” they cried in unison.

He held it aloft for all to see.  “This,” declared Sclerosis “is nothing more than an M & M!!!!!”

He popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.  He died at that moment, for no other reason than his heart stopped beating.

People were aghast!  So little truth had flashed before their eyes since religion adopted the game show format in the 1950s that this mockery of their very existence flung them into an orgiastic fit of rage.  Still…there was something to this.  After all, this was an experience they had just experienced.   An event.  A happening.  A thing.  They were all a part of it.  Suddenly and without warning, the guards draped an American flag over the former man’s lifeless body and hoisted him on their shoulders as if he had just scored the game-winning touchdown in a championship football game.

“HE………IS………..RISEN!!!!!”  they shouted in unison.

Everyone went back to work.

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7 Comments

Public Amused By Anything; Dies In A Fire

concert crowd

In the future, people will only communicate with each other using Top 10 lists.  Progress in the name of progress for the sake of progress will render all other forms of communication meaningless.  We will engage in the illusion of order until our planet is completely overrun by humans that are well armed, in peek physical condition and filled with a snarling, vengeful hatred towards one another. Then, some shocking and terrible catastrophe will take place and lots of people will write Top 10 lists about how awful it was and how sorry they are.  And they will be forgiven in order to do the same thing again.  Here’s my list…

1. You’d kill anything with a heartbeat.  You just like having other people do it for you.  No blood on your hands.  Very clean.  If you can put ketchup on it, chances are, you don’t care.  Tell me again about how you love the unborn, but you want to own a weapon that could flay the skin off of a buffalo from the distance of ten football fields.  Tell me about how people in far away places matter, but the idiot who just cut you off in traffic should burst into flames.  A fetus, presented neatly on a plate with a neatly arranged side of rice pilaf and a sprig of parsley, would present you with a nearly impossible ethical dilemma.

2. Everything is terrible.  Acting like this world is anything but a madhouse should be a  criminal offense.  Those who send greeting cards should be put in front of a firing squad.  Those who pretend to find meaning in life should be hanged.  If you are not disgusted by the basic perimeters of life, you are wildly disengaged from the events going on around you.  You are a product of a planet gone completely insane.

3. You are the problem.  If you look at all of the problems in your life, you are the common factor.  There are no outside factors or extenuating circumstances. You are both victim and victimizer in all cases.  You created God in your image in order to cause your own suffering and give meaning to your world.  There is nothing outside of you except for more you.   If you ever noticed the depth of it, you’d drown.

4. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  People who don’t eat breakfast are demented and spiritually compromised.  They all should be punished.  They are the problem.  If you speak to them, they will infect you.  If they are not dealt with, the human race will sink into a spiritual vacuum and mankind will slowly die a moral death.

5. 9 out of 10 dentists are simply trying to feed their kids.  Experts are unreliable shills who offer nothing but reaffirmation of a world bereft of anything that could even remotely be considered human.  They have been compromised by a system that rewards blind allegiance, conformity and drooling stupidity.  They are afraid to be the one dentist who thinks the other dentists are morons.  They are compensated well for their crimes and their children grow up to be happy and healthy robots only slightly more disgraceful than their parents.

The horrible truth is that the one dentist who disagrees doesn’t even really exist.  He is a creation of some marketing executive who understands that 9 out of 10 is more believable than 10 out of 10. If he actually does exist, his views have been streamlined in order to create bigger and more inclusive slaughterhouse of a world.  Any dentist fit to look at the teeth of a human being wouldn’t even take part in this sort of a carnival.  And what kind of fool would trust a dentist anyway?

chicken wings and homicide

6. You are waiting for me to talk about you specifically.  Sure, all this railing against the world is entertaining, but when is this weird fellow going to say something that applies to me.  Or separates me from the rest of the fools he’s talking about.  Or takes me into his arms and offers me forgiveness.  I’m not that awful.  I belong to a neighborhood association and I fought hard to make sure that no retaining wall obstructs the view of trees from the highway.  I laugh at all the jokes I’m supposed to get and cry when I receive the appropriate cues.  I am in conspiracy with this jerk and he’s not going to offer me absolution.  The hell with him.  I’ll never read him again and unsubscribe from his blog.

7. Who are you to tell me I’m a fraud?  You are just as pointless as me, Cowboy.  Being a guy with an Internet site doesn’t make you interesting.  How dare you point out my faults without accepting your own?  This is self-indulgent drivel.  You are a pretentious fraud who couldn’t think of a dumb metal parody for this week, so now you are picking on strangers.  This isn’t funny anymore.

Most of the others have stopped reading and gone on to find more cute pictures of cats or something to prove once and for all that Obama is a Marxist or that Rush Limbaugh is a pill-popping degenerate. (Here’s the part where you insert the cliché about “wanting your two minutes back” in order to remind your audience that you know all the things that smart people are supposed to say in these circumstances.  Go ahead.  Someone will nod approvingly and laugh).

8.  This article is a complete waste of time.  Jesus, haven’t you outgrown the “meta-” stuff already?  Most writers go through this phase then move on to writing something worth reading.  It’s something that people tend to outgrow in their early 20’s.  Like cartoons.  Nobody really likes this style of writing; they just act like they get it when you are around so you don’t get your feelings hurt.  Time is running short.  Your coming up on a thousand words now, Tough Guy.  Better find something worth saying

9.  Pro-Pain is a vastly underrated band.  They have 13 or so albums and almost every one has a great song or ten.  I’ve listened to Foul Taste of Freedom almost 50 times in the past week alone.  I would love to live in a society where the only form of currency were Pro-Pain albums.  Two “Shreds of Dignity(s)” could buy you a goat.  Five “Fistful of Hate(s)” would get you a horse.  15 acres of arable farmland?  That’ll be 12 “Straight To The Dome(s)”.  And on and on.

10.  Spleens are not food.  I think this one is pretty self-explanatory.  I’m going to go look in on my fantasy football team now.

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16 Comments

Metalheads Mourn As Some Guy From A Reasonably Well-Known Band Dies

grim-reaper-1Some guy, who was in a band that influenced a lot of other bands, passed away at 3 o’clock this morning from a disease that some other band was named after.  In a mass, spontaneous outpouring of sadness, thousands of anguished metalheads today posted R.I.P. on their Facebook pages along with pictures and videos mourning the death of a moderately talented, long-haired stranger.

“I can’t believe what’s-his-name is really dead. This is the saddest day since the other guy died a while back,” said some highly emotive gloom-monger who downloaded most of the band’s material off of Limewire.

“This is a great loss for the world of music.  Metal will never be the same,” said some dude who claims his band once opened for a band who opened for Metallica.

The dead guy’s band, which had recently traveled around the country and played a series of uninspiring concerts in front of people waiting for someone else to play, will try to soldier on without him.  In spite of their sadness about his death they have been somewhat consoled by a 15 percent spike in Youtube traffic, not to mention the exciting marketing opportunities that only the sudden, horrific death of an artist can provide.  Several tribute albums featuring obscure musicians looking to rip the remaining flesh off of his corpse should be available soon as people race to cash in on the public’s fetishization of grief.

Sure, his family will probably miss him and the two or three people who actually liked him and thought of him as more than a connection to the rockstar lifestyle are filled with sorrow.  But, at the end of the day, his death was probably a good thing.  After all, it provided thousands of individuals with the opportunity to share in yet another in a never-ending series of public events meant to distract people from issues that actually affect them.  Plus, many will now be able to participate in the fantasy that by exhibiting sorrow on a Facebook status, they can fool people into thinking that they are creatures still capable of experiencing human emotion.

Of course, it is quite possible that his death is actually just some sick prank to gather attention to websites like this one, which traffic in confusion as some bizarre postmodern form of currency.  Or, it could be part of an elaborate hoax used to allow the artist to escape from the rigors of a life of in the spotlight.  Like Elvis.  Or Kennedy.

One thing is certain, death is a valuable and coveted commodity.  If scientists could find a way to allow humans to die multiple times, it would be a marketing bonanza.  To misquote a great line from Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josey Wales, “Dying might be a heck of a way to make a living.”

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41 Comments

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