1940s film star Virginia Mayo died Jan. 17 following a year of declining health. She was 84. Though she shared the screen with Bob Hope, Danny Kaye and James Cagney, she will be best remembered for the fact that her last name is "Mayo," which is short for "Mayonnaise." On a side note, some early pictures of her are kind of hot if you go for that kind of fully clothed shit.
Talk show host Johnny Carson, died January 23. He was 79. Best remembered for modern comedians name-dropping how much they admired him, like love-starved groupies at a necrophilia convention. He used to have a talk show where animals frequently and hilariously peed on him. Seriously though, the man was a pioneer. We'll never see his like again, he was a great influence on my comedy and everyone I know wishes like Christ it had been Jay Leno in that casket.
Ossie Davis, actor of color, died February 4. He was 87. A champion for racial justice both onstage and off, he broke new ground for tolerance by being a Negro in film as early as 1963 without the aid of a huge 'fro, rolling white eyes, or being a hip, streetwise sidekick who gets killed halfway through the picture to motivate a white guy to kick some ass.
Auto Innovator John DeLorean, died March 19. This is the guy that made the car in the Back to the Future movies, but it doesn't actually fly or time travel in real life, which seems like a gyp to me. Also known for snorting huge amounts of cocaine, I was amazed to find he was still alive prior to March 19.
Cabaret singer Bobby Short, died March 21. The tuxedoed embodiment of New York style and sophistication" Oh, fuck it. You have no idea who Bobby Short was and we both know it. I don't know why I'm bothering, you goddamn callow little bastards.
Actor Barney Martin, died March 21 at age 82. He was best known for playing Jerry Seinfeld's dad Morty on the hit show, Seinfeld. Our hearts go out to Jerry, whose actual dad may or may not be dead. Losing a pretend father is one of the great pretend losses we must all pretend to face one day. On the other hand, Jerry worked with the guy a lot and probably liked him, so I guess I'm an insensitive fuck. Sorry, Jerry. You've been an enormous influence on my work.
Attorney Johnny Cochrain and that last Pope. [what are their death dates and ages?] Wow. What can one even say? These guys were giants in the industry, one at making up rhymes which convinced a jury OJ Simpson didn't saw his wife' head off, and the other for being all papal with the hat and the Pope-mobile and stuff. They will be missed by Catholics and murderers, alike.
Frank Perdue, hard-working Freakish Half Chicken human oddity, died March. He was 84. It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken, and a clueless one to come up with a slogan that appears to refer to human-on-chicken intercourse-which might explain his son.
Nobel laureate Saul Bellow, died April 5 at 89. The towering American literary figure and you don't know who he was any more than you know who Bobby Short was, you listless, bland, tepid sack of crap. Jesus, the money your parents spent on college for you could just as well have been stuffed up your hateful, ignorant ass along with a copy of Mr. Sandler' Planet.
Tony and Oscar award-winning actress Anne Bancroft died June 6. She was 73 and still pretty damn hot. She played Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate and I wanted to nail her, as did every other guy over the age of eight when that movie came out. But you weren't even born and you don't know shit about shit and you have no fucking understanding of the hole Anne Bancroft' passing leaves in the universe-which is why this country is going to hell at NEAR-LIGHT SPEED, MR. FUCKING XBOX, UNEMPLOYED, 'WHATEVER' SON OF A BITCH!
Character actor Vincent Schiavelli died Dec. 26 at age 57. Known for roles in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Ghost and numerous other films that called for "a ferociously ugly guy" I didn't recognize until I started researching this article; and now I'm really depressed because I thought he was terrific, underrated and ferociously ugly. But hey, life is ephemeral, I'm sure he' gone to a better place. Unless it turns out God actually judges people on their looks, in which case, he' fucked-which is what we all are because everybody dies in the nude and almost all of us are too insignificant to rate anything more than an inch in the local obituaries and a quick trip to the cheapest available crematorium.
Well, that about wraps it up. Another year of me not being famous enough to get on the list, which is, I suppose, as good a reason as any to keep on living. So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the whatever the hell the last line of The Great Gatsby is, which is just another damn book you've never read by a dead drunk. Happy New Year, you soulless, doomed bastards!