Well shit, Joan’s dead. Who the fuck knew she was only 81? You’re not supposed to still lie about your age on your death certificate honey, even if lying is the only thing you’re ever going to do from now on. Oh, it’s terrible I know, the doctors didn’t say how she looks dead, but it couldn’t get any worse right? A little rigor mortise might be just what she needs to look alive again, firm up that skin back to how it looked 30 years ago when she was only “scary”. All the mud baths in the world couldn’t help her, because apparently all she needed was a dirt nap. I was told the doctors pulled the sheets over her head before they even called it. It’s terrible, I know. I know she was well loved, but you can’t say there will be no dry eyes at her funeral, because Melissa Rivers and Cher don’t have tear ducts anymore, and no one else will be there. Oh. But at least she lives on, in death, as she did in life; on her back with her legs up in the air. Besides, she wouldn’t want us crying over her, she’d want us to be tearing her a new asshole, because fuck it, she had five already, and what’s another one when you’re colder than Barbara Bush’s tits in February? After all, she donated her organs, and apparently they’re going to use the skin from under her arms to make violin strings, and the skin from her labia to make a skate park for troubled urban teens. She’ll be missed, like a phantom tumor.
People reading this who don’t pay attention to Joan Rivers’ stand up might mistakenly think I’m not a fan.