Letters To Parade: This Is For The People Who Died, Died

I know I've asked this question before, but I'm not absolutely certain its ever been answered to my satisfaction, so let me pose it one more fucking time:

What the fuck is wrong with you people?

I mean, seriously, what the fuck is up?

Now, let me be clear, I don't mean you people, as in the people who actually read this blog, who are obviously very intelligent, worldly, hip and unlikely to see Delta Farce any time in the near future, unless forced to by the conditions of your parole. No, I mean the rest of you people, the ones who stumble upon this blog searching for your own name, only to find that I've taken you to task for your feral blood lust for the taste of fetid human flesh.

I can only presume from the number of letters Parade prints from "people" wondering where various celebrities are buried that there exists a vibrant underground network of necrophiliacs who gather most of their information on the mortality of celebrities and then the disposition of their corpses, by submitting questions to Walter Scott's Personality Parade, content to patiently wait for their marrow-sucking-corpse-bukkake desires to be satiated until such time that the upper right hand corner of Sunday's Personality Parade gives them a road map to pleasure. It's weird. Whenever someone has a question about a dead celebrity, it's always in the upper right hand corner. In fact, I keep waiting for a question to come in to Walter that asks what I think many of these fucktards are thinking: Is it okay that I'd still have sex with Anna Nicole?  Walter would then respond that still wanting to have sex with Anna Nicole is perfectly acceptable, and then he'd post up ten reasons why it's okay that Parade readers could vote on. It would look like this:

We think Anna Nicole is still one hot catch, especially now that God is managing her business. We think there are at least 10 good reasons having sex with her is still tasteful -- voters can go to parade.com to vote on which of the following they think is appropriate:

10. Her boobs are still soft and warm.

9. Now at least she wouldn't feel like she had to talk.

8. Now, it would be for love, not money.

7. I always thought she was a dirt whore, now it's true.

6. Necrophilia is not illegal in California.

5. She taught me how to love in SKYSCRAPER. I want to return the favor.

4. Dead is a relative term. We are all alive in God's kingdom.

3. Dude, did you see how she was dressed? She was begging for it.

2. I was trying to break into Johnny Cash's tomb, was already hard, figured what the hell.

1. Elton John and I are re-writing "Levon" in her honor and I wasn't sure if she'd wear her war wound like a crown...so I screwed her corpse just to be sure.

We'll post the results next week!

In this week's edition, however, Parade has made a crucial error: They've invited the The Groupies of the Dead into my neighborhood and, well, I'm not going to just sit by and let that happen. Because, you see, Thelma Raby of Fortson, GA (who might very well be dead herself, according to this obituary, which makes this all the more sordid and wrong...) has revealed in Parade her nefarious plans to find the decaying remains of Betty Hutton:

Film star Betty Hutton died recently. Where is buried?

First, if for some reason you happen to be a fan of Betty Hutton, to the point that even if you aren't prepared to derive sexual pleasure from her lovely bones, you do at least plan to visit her grave, then you are probably too old to travel and, furthermore, too old to give a shit about Betty Hutton. The last time Betty Hutton appeared in a movie was 50 years ago, which means if you were a really ardent fan, like, you know, you pretended you were her while walking around in another human's skin that you were fashioning into a lovely dress, that sort of thing, then, at the very least, you're 65. But most likely, you're pressing 80, which means, you know, get a fucking life. (And really, apart from Annie Get Your Gun, was she even in a memorable movie?) It would be like me knocking on Kristy McNichol's door in fifty years just to see, you know, what she and Jimmy have been up to since Hollywood Teen went off the air and, you know, asking her to sign my 45 of "He's So Fine." You know what that would make me? Insane. Nuts. A fucktard. What I'm saying, Thelma, if you're reading this from heaven or your home computer: What the fuck is wrong with you? I think I might just have the chance to find out, since apparently you're en route to my hood:

The brassy star of 1950's Annie Get Your Gun died March 11th at 86 and is buried at Desert Memorial Park in Palm Springs, Calif. After she left Hollywood in 1957, Hutton turned to alcohol and pills and attempted suicide in 1972. Rehabilitated by a priest while working in a Catholic rectory, she later earned a master's and taught acting. A recluse, "Betty was estranged from her family," a friend tells us. "None of her three daughters went to her funeral."

Here's the deal, Blood Sucking Corpse Fucking Sycophants: I live in the greater Palm Springs metropolitan area and since the lone Fat Burger in said area is right near Desert Memorial Park, I will see you sick fucks and will take action. You stay out of the desert, you hear me? You stay out or I will post enormous life-sized scarecrows formed in the image of Howard Kiel throughout the city, which will cause your decayed-flesh loving souls to twist in confusion...Is he alive? Has he risen from the dead? Is he seasoned appropriately?

[One a side note, it looks like the "friend" quoted above is everybody's pal the Associated Press.]

Comments

[GC]

There's always Find-A-Grave. That scratches most of my celebrity-related necrophilia urges.

And Betty Hutton was in one other memorable movie, "The Miracle of Morgan's Creek", done in that oh-so-brief period when Preston Sturges was brilliant, before he started drinking so much that he forgot how to be funny.

[Scott Phillips]

Tod,

She was the star of Preston Sturges's "Miracle at Morgan's Creek," which is a whole fucking lot better and more important than "Annie Get Your Gun."

Once my Mom and Dad and I were driving past the Palm Springs bone orchard where Sinatra lays, and my Dad said "Let's dig him up and give him a kiss." I assume that's the same one where Betty's interred. Good thing you weren't on patrol in those days.

Love,

Tex

[Scott Phillips]

whoops, I see GC got there before me on "Morgan's Creek." Sorry.

Tex