The most famous cross-eyed opossum in the world and former Hot Slut, Heidi, has closed her googly sticker eyes for the last time and floated off to the great big knocked over trash can in the sky at the way-too-young age of three and a half. The sores on my heart have not yet healed over Knut tragically earning a place in Oscar's In Memoriam montage (they better not forget) and now Heidi?! QUICK. Form two prayer circles around Frankenlouie!
The director of Germany's Leipzig Zoo delivered the sad news to Spiegel this morning. The zoo said that cross-eyed Heidi suffered from arthritis and other disorders brought on by the olds. (Mammal lesson: Possums usually don't live past the age of 4.) They didn't want Heidi to suffer anymore so they put her to sleep.
The bad news is, Sinead O'Connor is not talking about getting ding dong dicked in the culo by a blind hairy man not named Nigel. The badder news is that I just used the word badder and I'm not about to talk about delicious pancakes. The real badder news is that Sinead has switched from talking about swallowing Irish peen to talking about swallowing death inducers until she's singing "Emperor's New Clothes" in a basement lounge in purgatory.
UsWeekly points to Sinead's Twitter where a few days ago she asked her followers if they knew of a way she could ride the one-way rickshaw to the afterworld without her kids finding out that she offed herself.
Had to go psychiatrist for routine renew prescription etc. She says I'm a bad mum and mental for talking so openly about sex in public.
So now I wish suicide wud kill me.
I fucking hate Ireland so much.
All this shit we're not supposed to say. Including suicidal feelings, sex, etc. U just get treated like a crazy person. I want to go
To heaven SO bad. Have for yrs. But I don't wanna abandon my kids. But if I cud die without them knowing I did it myself I wud.
An I know every1 will say I'm a cunt for saying that.. But fuck all this shit we're 'not supposed to say'. I'm so tired. 24 yrs
Of being treated like a crazy person. Can't manage any more. Badly wish cud die without it ruining my kids lives.
Dr. Kevorkian died so Sinead O'Connor could let out an ode to suicides on Twitter.
Because telling a bunch of strangers that you want to Kurt Cobain yourself won't get you a visit from the cops, the cops visited Sinead and made her talk to a mental health professional again. Sinead has since jumped on her blog to write an open letter to anybody who's thinking of embracing death. You can read the entire thing here, but here's just a small piece:
I do believe suicide is a sin. Because u may as well have murdered every one who loves u even remotely. Including 'God'. And we all have people who adore us.. Even if we think we don't.
Its a lie too, suicide. It doesn't solve your problems. It only makes them infinately, un-countably worse. Its a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Which brings u a whole rake of new karmic problems. Its selfish. And shit. So.. Let's not do it.
BUT Its ok to FEEL suicidal. That is most definately neither a sin nor a sign necessarily, of madness. Its quite normal to feel that way sometimes.
And its not only ok but MANDATORY u SAY when u feel suicidal and ask for help.. And anyone who criticises u can fuck off so they can for themselves and is only afraid of their own 'madness' .
People who express suicidal feelings are least likely to act on them. anyone who gives u the remotest bit of shit for expressing suicidal feelings is a wanker and is to be politely asked to permanently vacate your precious company. Even if its ur mudda-fuggin Mama.
Sinead is crazier than an Athlone scumbag riding a hippo and Tweeting for suicide advice is the kind of shit I would expect from a 12-year-old Emo-in-training who just discovered Morrissey, but it's still good news for all of us that she chose not to reenact William H. Macy's New Year's Eve suicide scene from Boogie Nights. The world needs more strong hos who will fight for their right to take it up the ass.
Andy Whitfield left the role of Spartacus in Starz's Spartacus: Blood and Sand last year after the cancer he thought was in remission came back. Last I heard, Andy was responding well to treatment and they said he was getting better and might recover. They made it sound like maybe Andy would be back to getting his crotch chapped from wearing leather loin cloths really soon. But sadly, his manager told the Associated Press that Andy died of non-Hodgkin Lymphoma in Sydney, Australia today. Andy was only 39 years old. From the Associated Press comes this piece of sadness:
Whitfield's wife Vashti in a statement called her husband a "beautiful young warrior" who died on a "sunny Sydney morning" in the "arms of his loving wife."
Whitfield — who was born in Wales and lived in Australia — was a virtual unknown when he was cast as the title hero in "Spartacus," a hit original series for the Starz network that made waves with its graphic violence and sexuality.
Whitfield was preparing for the second season when he was diagnosed 18 months ago.
Rest in peace, Andy.
At this morning's 9/11 memorial ceremony at the World Trade Center site, one half of Simon & Garfunkel (Seriously, why no Garfunkel?!) performed "Sound of Silence" in front of the families of the victims. If there's one thing I know as true it's that Paul Simon always has the perfect cap to wear for every single occasion.
Valerie Simpson is without her Ashford today, but heaven is now with a mighty lion whose nipples blow out glitter confetti (proof above) and can whip out a melody with just the flip of his glorious mane. Nick Ashford of Ashford & Simpson is now singing God's permanent campaign song "Solid" live up in heaven today. Nick passed away from throat cancer at a hospital in New York last night. Nick was 69 years old.
Ashford & Simpson's love first bloomed when they met in 1964 and they immediately started making beautiful music together. Together they wrote: Ain't No Mountain High Enough, I'm Every Woman, Reach Out and Touch Somebody's Hand, Found a Cure, Ain't Nothing Like The Real Thing, You're All I Need To Get By and a million more. Basically, if Ashford & Simpson never wrote songs together, our ears, Marvin Gaye, Chaka Khan, Diana Ross, romantic comedies, every stupid contestant on every stupid singing reality competition, karaoke bars, your mom on cleaning day and wedding DJs would all be fucked.
Nick is survived by his partner in everything Valerie and their two daughters.
Rest in peace, Nick.
TMZ reports that Russell Armstrong of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills was found dead in his home on Mulholland Drive last night. The police believe that Russell committed suicide, because the fire department found him hanging in his bedroom. Russell's roommate found him at around 8pm. Russell was 47.
Russell was going through a messy ass divorce with Taylor Armstrong and she recently accused him of beating on her during the end of their marriage. Russell admitted to pushing her around, but said he never Ike Turnered her in any way. Russell was also facing a $1.5 million lawsuit from a company that claims he and Taylor skimmed money off the top to pay for their lifestyle.
Russell is survived by his 5-year-old daughter with Taylor and his two sons from a previous relationship.
One of my childhood friends said that she was going to grow up and marry Jani Lane of Warrant, so I'm sure she's curled up in the WHY GOD WHY? position while clutching a poster of him and vowing to never let a piece of cherry pie touch her lips again. Because TMZ reports that Jani Lane (born name: John Kennedy Oswald) rode on a pair of hairsprayed hair wings to heaven last night at the age of 47.
The Los Angeles Police Department says that Jani was found dead in the room of a Comfort Inn in Woodland Hills, CA. No cause of death has been released yet.
Jani joined Warrant in 1986 and quit their asses in 1992 before coming back and quitting again several times over. Jani and Warrant went to their separate corners for good in 2008. Jani struggled with the booze bottle for years and was arrested for his second DUI last year.
Jani is survived by his two daughters (one with Bobbie Brown).
Rest in peace, Jani. Every stripper will be pouring their souls out on the pole tonight to this song:
TMZ brings us the sad news that Cha Cha the best dancer at St. Bernadette's is now hand jive-ing up to heaven with Bubba Smith (R.I.P.). Annette Charles, who twirled and swished her ruffles next to the human ruffle that is John Travolta in the Grease movie passed away at the age of 63 last night. Annette's family says that she died at her home from cancer.
Rest in peace, Cha Cha. I will do the double hand job dance in your honor today while thinking about how you're up in heaven winning every single dance battle against St. Bernadette herself.
Sky News has confirmed that Amy Winehouse was found dead inside of her home in London. I'm going to need more receipts before I do the slow wall fall while silently screaming out, "Wi-noooooooooooo."
It looks like I got those sad receipts. The police issued a statement to the BBC saying that a 27-year-old woman was found dead in Amy Winehouse's house at a little after 4pm today.
"Police were called by London Ambulance Service to an address in Camden Square NW1 shortly before 16.05hrs today, Saturday 23 July, following reports of a woman found deceased.
On arrival officers found the body of a 27-year-old female who was pronounced dead at the scene.
Inquiries continue into the circumstances of the death. At this early stage it is being treated as unexplained."
Unconfirmed reports say that Amy died of an alcohol and drug overdose.
A lot of people are saying that we all saw this coming, but I really didn't. Maybe I'm naive as all fuck. But I thought Amy Winehouse would outlive us all and make a million more albums and throw spit bombs at a million more bitchy fans. You know, like Keef Richards or Courtney Love. I really don't know what to say. I'm sure Amy's sitting around the 27 Club table with Kurt Cobain, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison right now.
Rest in peace, Amy. Your voice spoke to my broken heart, nobody could wore a busted mound of black polyester hair like you and ballet slippers will never be the same again.
Thanks to sitting in front of an analog television playing Gilligan's Island reruns for hours, I'm pretty sure that the first words I ever learned how to read were: "Sherwood Schwartz executive producer." So the burnt coconut in my chest is beating one out for Sherwood Schwartz today. The L.A. Times reports that Sherwood took a three hour tour all the way up to heaven today at the age of 94. Sherwood died of natural causes in his sleep while surrounded by his family. Note to my family: Don't watch me sleep, even if I'm about to die. Thank you.
Sherwood was the mastermind behind The Brady Bunch, Gilligan's Island and Dusty's Trail, and was a writer on Harper Valley P.T.A. Sherwood is also responsible for writing the theme songs to The Brady Bunch and Gilligan's Island. I forget the names of my own relatives all the time, but I've never forgotten the lyrics to Gilligan's Island. Hell, if you asked me to sing the theme song to the first season of Gilligan's Island, you know I'd sing out "AND THE REST!" instead of "The Professor and Mary Ann!" It's like that.
Rest in peace, Sherwood! I'm sure heaven is like snuggling with Ginger's peach gown.