Christopher Reeve, star of such films as Village of the Damned and Anna Karenina, was killed today when he was finally paralyzed to death.
He died while in a coma from a heart attack that he had on the previous day. Man, comas are the new plane crash lately--they're kicking everybody's ass. First Barry White, Rodney Dangerfield, now Christopher Reeve. But, I think it was the heart attack that really did it. It's his own fault, too. He kept telling himself he would start running come January 1. Oh sweet irony.
His wife said in a statement, "I also want to thank his personal staff of nurses and aides, as well as the millions of fans from around the world who have supported and loved my husband over the years." This was followed by, "Whew! Who wants to go dancing? Jesus!" She then went running on uneven ground for two hours.
As everybody knows, Christopher Reeve was paralyzed in 1995 when he, in a drunken stupor, longing for his Superman days, tried to fly off the roof of his house. Once he realized he couldn't move anymore, he started a foundation that would research how to make really fast wheelchairs. He had hoped to get a wheelchair that could go fast enough so that he could reverse the earth's rotation so he could go back in time. Nobody had the heart to tell him that that only works in his movies so the charities persisted until today when all of the actors hired to pose as doctors can finally return to their normal lives.
On a serious note, I joke about it, but I really do feel bad that he died. Now who are people going to make fun of when they really want to stick it to those goddamn paraplegics? There's no paraplegic icon quite like ole Chris Reeve.
Also, in Friday night's debate, John Kerry mentioned how he was good friends with Christopher Reeve when they were discussing stem-cell research. You know that, come Wednesday's final debate, George W. Bush will use this against him.
"America, John Kerry says that he was good friends with Christopher Reeve, and now he is dead. All he had to do was mention his name and he died. Just by mentioning his name. Do you want him saying your name? So now I'm asking you, America, who would you rather have as your commander-in-chief? Me? Or old Deathbags Malone over there? I think you know the smart choice. Oh yeah. September Eleventh."
Friday morning at like 3:30 I woke up and I had three spider bites on my shoulder, two right near my left eyeball, and one on my ear. I'm fucking delicious. I'm not one of those people who are afraid of spiders, but if something bites the hell out of me while I'm asleep, I'm definitely not going to go back to sleep very soon. If a stillborn baby was in a room with me and I fell asleep only to wake up with fucking bite marks all over my body, I guarantee you I won't sleep in that room again until I'm positive that that bitey stillborn wasn't in there anymore. So, at 3:30 in the morning I took a shower, vacuumed the hell out of my room, and sprayed bug spray to the point of toxic chemical-induced dizziness. Goddamn spiders.
Interesting thought of the day:
Making fun of dead and/or paralyzed people really does make you feel better--no matter what people with "taste" actually say about it.