RedWolfsrevolution.com Blog

Written July 1st, 09….so it’s a little dated

Call it supernatural phenomenon. Call it superstition. Call it even paranoia delusion. But it always seems that celebrities die in groups of three. Ever since the fateful plane crash that killed Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and J.P. “Big Bopper” Richardson in 1959, there has been a persistent myth that once one goes, two are sure to follow. It always seemed that way. Or at least my limited memory on the subject perceives it to be that way.
But then one morning I realized that it had been awhile since any big celeb had passed on. The last I could remember was probably Paul Newman. And then, the unthinkable happened. It was unexpected. It was startling. And it was mildly enticing…that’s right: David Carradine tied his balls up to his throat and strangled himself to get a hard-on. I’ll never be able to watch Kung-Fu ever again; a spiritual holy man was in reality a sexual weirdo…just like me. Dire thoughts, indeed.
A few weeks had passed and – in almost a small bit of irony, due to Conan O’ Brian’s triumphant return to ‘Latenight as new Host to the Tonight Show – Ed McMahan passed away at the age of 86. A good man, and fellow drinker who, as Conan pointed out, had a laugh which became the “soundtrack of the Tonight Show.” I just hope that McMahan caught a couple of episodes of Conan’s hosting – as it is the new genius of late night.
Then, on the 24th of June, I found myself in a comparatively mild drinking binge, contemplating the evils of Government and the endless stupidities of human nature…when it suddenly occurred to me that: there’s one more. Isn’t there?
Who was to be next then? I KNEW! In my mind there was only one possible person: that timeless beauty – who even at 50 looked gorgeous nude – Ms. Farrah Fawcett. I went over it in my head for a few minutes, about how her condition has been made rather public and well-known. I had just seen a report the previous night.
Sure enough, the next morning I woke up, fired up the computer, and the first report I read: “Farrah Fawcett dead at 62.” Suddenly, I felt really bad. Because if I had made a some-what “dead-pool” like gamble the night before – I would have been a richer man. So instead of spiraling into a guilt-filled nightmare, I decided to amass myself with old Playboy photos of Farrah that I found online, along with a cold bottle of Mickey’s. This helped.
“That was three” I told myself. The nightmare was over, at least for the time being. No famous people would be dying anytime soon. Or so I thought.
Then, sometime in the afternoon I turned on the news. The breaking story out of Los Angeles was that Michael Jackson had been rushed to the hospital. “Oh well”; these things happen all the time. But then I read the caption at the bottom of the screen: cardiac arrest? This could potentially be a bad outcome for the King of Pop. But hell, I’m sure they’ll figure it out, right? After all, Michael doesn’t go anywhere without his personal medical assistant, and I’m sure he’s got a whole assortment of pills that open the heart, close it, and do all sorts of medical miracles. I convinced myself that Michael was going to be okay, even though I wasn’t a fan of his. He did, as anyone can surely admit, have an unhealthy relationship with little children.
All he needed was a little Jesus Juice, a couple pills, and his pet monkey; that would surely restore the color to his face. I mean…err…anyways; I jumped back on the computer to look up a few things. Then, about 10 minutes later, I get a phone call from my mother:
“Did you hear?!”
“No…” I replied.
“Michael Jackson died.”
“They said he was in the hospital right now.”
“No, it’s just been reported that he’s dead.”

And sure enough, TMZ was right on the money. The King of Pop was dead at 50. After a lifetime of amazing talent, a bizarre lifestyle, and several lawsuits; the biggest musical name since Elvis Presley (probably) was dead.
“Oh man.” Suddenly I felt even worse; first my prediction of a Farrah Fawcett, and then my wrong prediction that this was going to round out the 3 celebs. Then I realized that poor Farrah was going to be forgotten in the coming…minutes. If not sooner than that. International child molester Michael Jackson was going to swallow up the media with his untimely death.
And that’s the point I believe most fans are neglecting. Jesse Jackson might be able to sound prolific with all the rhetoric about “his shortcomings not outweighing his strengths” or something like that, but the fact is that Michael Jackson had an extremely unusual, and, in my opinion, very inappropriate relationship with little kids. By his own admission! Sleeping with them, having nude pictures on the bed stand; all sorts of things that most parents look at as unhealthy. But Jacko, somehow, was able to make all the parents of all those kids who stayed at NeverLand Ranch forget about these things.
Is this the age of stupidity? Or just parental neglect on such a large scale as to even allow such an event to happen? Not an isolated incident, but one that occurred all the all time because parents continued to let their kids go over his house, even after the testimony came out.
There could be a good thing to come out of this. We are just now hearing that Michael’s children might not be his. They might in fact become biological specimens of some unknown person. If this turns out to be true, then years from now those kids are going to be extremely grateful. At least they won’t have to worry about being put in a dangerous situation, like being dangled off a balcony. Unless the sperm donor turns out to be a Saudi Arabian prince, and he gains custody of the kids…then they might be become little jihadist in the near future. The sick bastard would be destroying little kid’s lives even from beyond the grave. But it’s best not to think about it now.

So that’s four. And wasn’t it three’s they di…oh my god!! Before I could even finish the realization…T.V. pitchman Billy Mays was found dead at his home in Tampa. “What the hell is going on?” My mom asked. One after another. But I’m in serious doubt, and for one very good reason that I pose as a question: is Billy Mays constituted as a celebrity? Well, we’ve been seeing him for years on T.V…he’s the guy most people mute when they hear his voice come on. And Fritzy thought I’d be glad to hear the news. But – although he was as annoying as a hemorrhoid – it was a sad story.
So, that’ now five. There’s one more, there has to be! It’s the law of…err…superstition…just like Christ. Is it time to play my own Deadpool? Time to take bets? I say Patrick Swayze. The man just doesn’t look good. I’ve also heard that legendary newsman Walter Cronkite is pretty bad.
Ah what am I talking about? That’s sick. Life is far too precious for stupid guesses like that. Forgive me. I’m just in complete and utter shock at the bombarding of celebrity deaths in the last few weeks. And most of which were unexpected.
I really hope I’m wrong anyways; the old myth is probably just that – a myth. I doubt anyone will kick the bucket anytime soon. Unless that shadow in the curtains is what I think it is: angry parolees who are upset about my essay Cancerfornia, and, alas, I become number Six…