Celebrities Stopped Dying

So these celebrities are still present.

Following the rush of celebrities passing by and away, the flood has stemmed.

Who was the last one? Prince?

And since then; I can’t think of one and it’s been months since the last.

And now I can’t even stroll down the street without colliding with some C-Lister, busying up my route on the pavement and urging me to know their name.

I am of course being ridiculous.

And why not; I’ve got enough celebrities on standby to risk being a tad ridiculous.

Who do we have left?

The Queen.

And she’s worth at least 70.

A regal 70.

Mick Jagger’s worth 80.

This is all relative.

Besides, Shakespeare’s dead. Whatever will he think of next?

Who’s left from the good days of our timely lives?

We’ve got Paul McCartney…

I’ve always liked Paul McCartney; the only Beatle.

Ah that’s not true, I just feel that without Paul McCartney, who is (by the way) a real whole-name kinda guy – doesn’t feel correct to say merely “Paul” or “McCartney”, is the reason the Beatles showed up on time.

One of those chaps you could rely on to wear a proper coat no matter what weather. Or who thought it’d be nice for us all to have some sandwiches and just happens to have some with him right now.

Not that he’s a sap, ole’ Paul McCartney.

I wouldn’t want to bully him.

I reckon he’s the sort of fellow to get picked on and, then, right in the middle of the scuffle, it turns out he can elbow you supremely hard somewhere convenient for him and inconvenient for you. And then he’d stagger back, looking hurt with his nice shirt collar all ruffled.

“I didn’t want to elbow you really hard there but I asked you to stop! I’m being nothing but reasonable! Well I’m sorry your private parts are hurt Sam but you really did ask for them to get a good elbowing you know.”

That’s a collision of two gross skin patches.

The elbow skin and the ball bag skin, meeting at last in an epic encounter of whose surface is the weirder, bumpier kind.

Like fried chicken skin.

Paul McCartney would be sure to pack natural remedy cream in his suitcase, explicitly for ragged elbows: “Please give it a go Sam, I want to see your elbows free to breathe again!”

Perhaps he’d be against elbow skin because of the fried chicken similarity.

Poor old vegetarians.

They have broccoli to rely on.

And that’s sad.

Broccoli is no companion. Plus it only keeps you warm if you rub yourself with it hard enough.

Rub yourself with a chicken hard enough and it’ll get you arrested, though you will easily find some feathers to fill your shitey jail pillow with.

I’m running low on time, plus my wife’s looking attractive in a fascist attitude; like she’s withdrawn my choice as to whether or not I find her hot and am simply now erect and servile.

What else do I have in my notes?

“Whale prodding.”

I’m not sure what that was relating to. But I brought it up.

“Nipples for the inner circle only.”

Again, I’ve not the slightest, foggiest clue as to what I was referring to when I wrote that one down, but…mentioned it!

What else?

“Fuck the Naples Mafia; who heisted those Van Gogh pictures.”

Yes. Fuck the Naples mafia verily.

I’m a fair-enough-fan of Van Gogh and consider those flat-capped, shoulder-braces, tiny cigarette smoking, just like mama-used-to-stealia-the-artworka, youa-nota-make-it-into-the-inner-nipple-circle mafia motherfuckers to have stolen that artwork from me personally.

How conceited can you be to steal a Van Gogh? That’s like stealing Mount Everest; it’s everyone’s. It’s Humanity’s; don’t touch my mountain.

Oh I would love the Naples mafia to come for me. Pussies. You ruined Naples.

Ok then, to wrap up today’s Brief Therefore Witty with hopes of mafia war (I’d win; I’ve got Paul McCartney), I’d just like to say with a tad more cultural insensitivity that fucka-the-Naples-mafia-boopidy and next time you can look forward to reading all about what to do when a clown comes running at you.

Here’s to celebrities lost…

Thanks,

Sam

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