In reference to the original topic. I guess I'm just a crusty old bitch, but I have a few beefs.
1) I do not need round the clock coverage of a D-level "reality" star no matter how massive her boobs may have been. This woman is no more important -- nay, she's far less important -- than a friend of mine who died in April. My friend was a contributing member of her community, a dedicated teacher, an AU graduate and one of the nicest people you'd ever meet. Beth "Lady Dog" Chapman couldn't carry her water. She was "famous" for having big tits, big hair and a smart mouth.
2) If, on the day that I die, a family member of mine rushes to Tweeter/Instabooks/Faceplate or whatever the next generation of inane and irrelevant stream-of-consciousness apps are around to post a lament of my passing? Please find and cripple that person. Spay and neuter anyone who responds to those empty words with faux-sentimental pablum and treacle.
3) Don't ever make the mistake of believing anyone who says "he would have wanted it this way." I do NOT want it whatever way that person is assuming I might have wanted it. If I could have it the way I want, it wouldn't happen. But since it will, I'd really want to be lashed to a pile of kerosene soaked logs and set adrift in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Maine. When I've floated about 100 yards, I'd like the hottest-looking female archer you can find to launch a flaming arrow into the pyre (in which was hidden a couple of blocks of C-4 and a bundle of fireworks. As it explodes, the instrumental portion at the end of Layla should begin playing.
In short, as unfeeling as it may make me sound, I do not give the first squirty shit about Lady Dog or her manufactured "fame." I'm sorry her family has to deal with her loss, but it is of absolutely zero consequence to me.
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