I dread the deaths of certain super-celebrities. Not because I care about them, but because of all the [****] I have to endure on television when one of them dies. All those tributes and retrospectives. And the bigger the personality, the worse it is.
For instance, imagine the [poop] we'll have to endure on TV when Bob Hope dies. First of all, they'll show clips from all of his old road movies with Bing Crosby, and you can bet that some news anchor [****] will turn to the pile of clothing next to him and say, "Well, Tami, I imagine Bob's on the Road to Heaven now."
Then there'll be clips of all those funny costumes he wore on his TV specials, including the hippie sketch, where they'll show him saying "Far out, man, far out!" They'll show him golfing with dead presidents, kissing blonde bombshells, and entertaining troops in every war since we beat the [****] out of the Peloponnesians. And at some point, a seventy-year-old veteran will choke up, and say, "I just missed seein' him at two, 'cause I got my legs blowed off. He's quite a guy."
Ex-presidents (including the dead ones) will line up four abreast to tell us what a great American he was; show-business perennials will desert golf courses from Palm Springs to O.J.'s lawn to lament sadly as how this time, "Bob hooked one into the woods"; and, regarding his talent, a short comedian in a check-ered hat will speak reverently about "Hope's incredible timing."
And this stuff will be on every single newscast day and night for a week. There'll be special one-hour salutes on "Good Morning America," the "Today" show, and "CBS This Morning." Ted Koppel will ask Henry Kissinger if it's true Bob Hope actually shortened some of our wars by telling jokes close to the front lines. CNN will do a series of expanded "Show Biz Todays." One of the cable channels will do a one-week marathon of his movies. And it goes without saying that NBC will put together a three-hour, prime-time special called "Thanks for the Memories," but at the last minute they'll realize Bob Hope's audience skews older, and sell it to CBS.
Then there'll be the funeral, carried life on the Dead Celebrity Channel, with thousands of grotesque acne-ridden fans seeking autographs from all the show-business clowns who dug out their best black golfing outfits to attend "one of the hottest burials to hit this town in decades" -- Variety. And all this [****] will go on for weeks and weeks and weeks. Until Milton Berle dies. And then it will start all over again. I dare not even contemplate Frank Sinatra and Ronald Reagan.
(slightly reworded by the profanity filter)
"Select the pistol, and then, select your horse."