Early Warning Signs

These some crazy boots I got on.

Let me break it down for the boys in the back. The Pope is dead and the mass is sad. Ain't nobody throwin' one single "Hooray! You're in Heaven!" parade. Ain't nobody suggesting that the better place is all it's cracked up to be.

Meanwhile, in the Jersey landscape, Mitch Hedberg is dead and ain't one candlelight vigil filling his grave with goodness.

I suppose the true measure of popularity is how many people cry at your funeral, and wish that you could remain alive for another one-hundred and fifty years, stuck to a tube that shoots grape juice through your veins.

"Hooray! The Pope will remain intoxicated like a free-form zombie so we never have to wish the horrible plague of Heaven's Gates upon him!"

Never has death been so popular. Not since Neil Gaiman has Death been so dang high profile.

Word to the miser… keep your gene pool in that fat wallet of yours. It can only help. At the end of the world party, your chromosomes can stand proud and declare that truly they helped bring this absurd herd to its meteorological end.

The peacock didn't know what vanity was 'til it spread out those beat-all feathers. And then it didn't care.

Good night, Mitch Hedberg, wherever you are.

Z.