Come and dance on our flooooooor

Do you think the Dead McMahaons is a good band name? I dunno. Maybe a little soon, right? Though, I’d guess that there are already some bands who are now calling themselves the Dead McMahaons. Hey, it’s timely, right?
For whatever reason, he’s been on my mind lately, old dead Ed. You know who else? Farrah Fawcett. Yeah. Where’s she? I mean seriously, what’s up her ass these days? Huh? Huh? Nah…tasteless joke. No good. Can’t speak of the dead like that, you know? It’s not cool.
That’s the way life works, Dogs of War. As long as someone’s alive, you can motherfuck them up and down, say they’re total pieces of shit, completely curse their name. Then they die. Here’s your choices: You can (if you’re a total asshole) get high and mighty and decide that they deserved it, like in the case of someone who puts themselves at risk knowingly, an Evil Kenevil or a Steve-O or an Artie Lang, or you just all of a sudden decide that they were great, and that it’s really sad. Yesterday, for example, I was making some joke about the lack of an afternoon crowd at my bar. I said “it’s deader than….” huh. Someone pretty big and beloved died recently, right? Let’s just use Johnny Cash as a place holder since I’m blanking right now. I said “man, it’s deader than Johnny Cash in here” and this guy, this insufferable wang chug who dj’s at the bar I work puffed up and got offended and said something to the effect of “Hey, I don’t think it’s appropriate to be telling jokes like that already, man.” What kind of jokes? Dead person jokes? He IS, in fact, dead. That’s not even much of a joke. That’s like making fun of someone for living in Missouri. Yeah, it might not be awesome, but man, it’s undeniable, and all the eulogizing in the world isn’t gonna make their house suddenly in Wisconsin. He’s dead, man. And you know what, dude? Lots of people have been making jokes about Johnny Cash, you know, bleaching his skin, fucking little boys, living in a zoo/amusement park, partying with chimps and being and all around nut job for a long fucking time. That’s hurtful. Mocking and probing and speculating when someone is alive to feel the sting of the cruelty at large is shitty. Simply joking about someone who’s dead being dead…fuck, man. That’s the sweetest, kindest Johnny Cash joke ever told. Jamon!
Okay, we’re skirting the real issue here, which is, of course that John Ritter died on the same day as Johnny Cash. That’s gotta be rough. I mean here he is, a seventies TV star on an ultimately disposable show that was all about pushing the network’s sexual envelope, dying on the same day as a genre defining musical legend. It’s a bummer for Ritter, that’s for sure. I mean, everyone knows where they were when Johnny Cash died…no, that’s not true. I have no idea where I was. I remember where I was when Farrah Fawcett died though! Man, that was a big blow, right? Seems like just yesterday I was standing there, stacking glasses in my bar when suddenly someone said “farrah Fawcett is no more”. I remember thinking two distinct thoughts: 1. Aw, she never got to go through with that marriage to Ryan Oneil. Bummer. And 2. Did you just say “Is no more?’ What are you, a wizard? Who talks like that?
Well, that’s one of those things right? Death. It’s scary, Sock Drawer. That’s why people invent gods and prolong their youths and hide themselves behind masks and new faces and fake voices and wigs and all this stuff. Because death is scary. Someday, Dogs of War, someday we’ll ALL moonwalk off to that big Star Search in the sky, but until then, we have to just kind of live, right? Keep whacking off to those Farrah Fawcett posters. Keep opening those publishers clearinghouse envelopes. Keep listening to Johnny Cash on the jukebox and pretending we actually like him, keep repositioning John Ritter as a groundbreaking physical comedian even though he….no. You know what? No. John Ritter WAS a groundbreaking physical comedian. No one could fall over a couch like that motherfucker, man. And in Bad Santa? Awesome. Take that, Cash. Now who’s being eulogized fondly?

I dunno…before death came along and ruined the weekend, I was gonna make a list of fun shit to do today, remember? Well, how bout this, in honor of our fallen celebrity friends, here are some dead, decaying, rotting celeb themed activities to try:
Try heroin
Fuck Ryan Oneil
Make a racist joke then loudly shout “HeyoooooO!’
Say something in the kitchen that sounds like you’re about to fuck someone if it’s overheard from the living room.
Bum out Reese Witherspoon with your drunken antics.
Wear a one piece bathing suit.
Take a large check to someone and tell them they’ve won something (don’t worry about the fact that you don’t have any money. You’ll brighten their day for a couple of minutes).
Cuddle with Corey Feldman.
Um….Okay, I gotta go to work so that’s it. Hope this helped. Death ain’t easy kids. I expect lots of consoling, nude picture swapping and general camaraderie in the comments section today. And as always, I’m thinking of y’all.