But if You're Heath Ledger's Dad, and HE'S Heath Ledger's Dad, Then...Oh Boy.
It's heartening to know that unless my plan for a sitcom about Jerry Falwell and a large gay man living together in a New York City apartment (working title is Bear With Me) takes off, I'll never be famous enough for someone to pose as my grieving father when I die.
Sadly, Heath Ledger cannot say the same. Both because he's ceased that particular oral function, and because some douche posed as his grieving father.
The worst part is, given all of the doors opened to the grieving father of a dead celebrity, what does this fucker do?
Calls John Travolta and talks him into buying him a plane ticket to the U.S.
Calls Tom Cruise and receives “moral support.”
Calls the funeral home where Ledger’s funeral is going to be and talks them into booking him rooms at a nearby luxury hotel.
Calls the doctor who performed Ledger’s autopsy. Asks for nothing. Just chats. About Heath Ledger’s autopsy.
It’s surprising that no one questioned his identity sooner, until you realize that, Like Ledger’s father, the con man had a British accent, which Americans find irresistible.
But considering the vital piece of information that Ledger’s real father was a racecar driver, I find this con man’s actions decidedly boring. If you’re going to plumb the depths of indecency, at least be ridiculous about it. Imagine how much more he could have asked for, given the same schedule of phone calls:
Calls John Travolta and asks for a ride in his private jet “to feel the speed again. The speed I used to feel when I drove my racecars. You know, before my son died.” No one’s going to say no to that.
Calls Tom Cruise and asks him to ease his troubles by putting Heath’s death into Scientological terms, records the conversation and sells it to The Superficial for millions.
Calls the funeral home where Ledger’s funeral is going to be and talks them into letting him sleep in the display coffins.
Calls the doctor who performed Ledger’s autopsy and asks for a pony, or at least a pony autopsy.
But sadly, those ships have sailed, and taken their vivisected ponies with them. Take note, con men and anyone with a desire to feed off the misfortune of others: make it more entertaining, and maybe the general public won’t find you so repugnant. I’m not promising anything though.
When not blogging for Cracked, Michael makes tragic videos as head writer and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!
It's heartening to know that unless my plan for a sitcom about Jerry Falwell and a large gay man living together in a New York City apartment (working title is Bear With Me) takes off, I'll never be famous enough for someone to pose as my grieving father when I die.
Sadly, Heath Ledger cannot say the same. Both because he's ceased that particular oral function, and because some douche posed as his grieving father.
The worst part is, given all of the doors opened to the grieving father of a dead celebrity, what does this fucker do?
