Wednesday, September 16, 2009

A Perfectly Good Explanation for the Recent Rise in Celebrity Deaths

Patrick Swayze passed away Monday at the age of 57. Michael Jackson died in June. Also dead recently: Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, Ricardo Montalban, James Whitmore, Natasha Richardson, Bea Arthur, and Dom Deluise. The list just goes on and on, and it's terrifying. In the words of Charlton Heston, who succumbed to death in 2008, "It's a mad house. A maaaaad house!"

So, what is causing these famous people to just stop breathing and lie there all lifeless? Is it because some of them were in advanced stages of cancer? Is it because some of them were involved in terrible accidents? Was it simply natural causes from being super old? No. It was something far...more...nefarious.

I've been investigating Hollywood Death Syndrome (as I've come to call it) for the last ten minutes, and I've concluded that Hollywood must have been built on an Indian burial ground, or if you're being PC, an Indian memorial park.

Yes. Hollywood was built right over an extremely large patch of land where a lot of deceased Native Americans were buried thousands of years before the first studio head pioneered his way to California in search of gold and platinum Visas. It was there before the great-great-great grandfather of Humphrey Bogart proposed on one knee to the great-great-great grandmother of Lauren Bacall. (She said no, and they went on to marry other people.)

And it is, after all, pretty understandable that the Native Americans would be angry, considering how they have been treated in films. In Dances With Wolves, which won the Oscar for Best Picture in 1990, Native American actors were subjected to Kevin Costner in the nude. Actors in the film Windtalkers were exposed to the acting of Nicolas Cage. So, now those ancient buried Native American souls are good and pissed. And they will stop at nothing to make sure that all the celebrities will pay for what their ancestors have done. Hence, celebrity death epidemic.

And this isn't the first time.


Robert Mitchum, James Stewart, Princess Diana, Burgess Meredith, Red Skelton, John Denver, Chris Farley. The list goes on. (My god, they were dropping like flies that year. And the stench...the STENCH of people shouting, "Show me the money!" in the streets, even though it had stopped being funny.) Did these people die in horrible accidents, from old age, and because of drugs? Or was it because of pissed off Indian spirits, spending eternity being forced to watch Sylvester Stallone sunbathe?

So, what can we do to get rid of these spirits, send them to the great beyond, and stop these celebrity deaths from happening once and for all? We must exorcise Hollywood. (No, Madonna, get off that elliptical machine. I said EXORCISE.) And we have to do it before another celebrity shuffles off this mortal coil.

Everyone, grab your closest Scientologist/Kabbalah leader/Jedi Master, and let's do this thing...

Wait, what? Everybody dies, and I should just accept it? Well, way to rain on my parade, science.

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