When he died part of my heart died with him.

escalator shoes what made him look so tall. In reality he had impossibly short legs. He was like a human Dachshund. He was my hero. I looked up to him, but at his autopsy

there was no defending the heroin blisters around his throbbing temple veins, nor the coke mustache. The pathologist concluded that the cause of death was

metastasized testicular teratoma, with a side dish of acute coronary thrombosis. The drug habit probably didn't help, but it probably didn't make much difference in the end. The pa

pas fritas probably contributed to his ball cancer because fried foods did that. But if you can't eat junk and do drugs then how are you going to deal with the cable line up

plaguing America today? He gathered his bucket of chicken and a few pouches of "the good stuff" and settled in for a long torturous night of American Idol reruns.

"The good stuff" turned out to be "not so good" and the American Idol-thon turned into an acid trip into hell. He'd had himself strapped down though so he couldn't even turn it off

...ever. Delirium set in as echoes of Ruben Studdard, Clay Aiken, Fantasia, and David Archuleta drummed through his head. "No more," he mumbled, "No more American Idol...please

stop with the demeaning 'reality' shows. Real jobs are important.." He dozed off. A team of doctors stood over him, all American Idol fans. "Does it say DNR on his chart?" "Gee, I

don't see it. Maybe we should wake him up with a song?" The group agreed, and they burst into a rendition of Mama Mia. He died, alone in silence. "No pulse? Everyone's a critic."