I killed Gregory Peck.
I’m very sorry-I really didn’t mean it. I love the man!
But it happens all the time. Earlier this week I looked at Mr. Singular and said “Is Gregory Peck still alive?”
“Oh, yeah, I think so. I saw him on some show a few months ago, he looked good.”
Next morning’s paper - “Gregory Peck dead”.
All my fault.
We did it with James Coburn. We did it with Robert Stack. We did it with Al Hirschfeld. Dudley Moore. Rod Steiger. Alec Guinness. George C. Scott.
All of these people died within a few days of us saying “whatever happened to…?” or “is he/she dead?”.
Now I’m afraid to speak the name of any beloved celebrity, although I will step right up and loudly ask “is Tom Green still alive?” “Whatever happened to those people in the Old Navy ads?”
This ever happen to you?
If I post an answer, will you promise to forget my username?
Whatever happened to singu-GAK!!!
thud.
See, that’s why some posters change their username.
Eve just did that to David Brinkley in this thread.
You bastard!
On similar lines, the morning of September 11, I was telling my carpool buddy that America’s teenagers needed a good war to get them out of their pool of apathy.
hangs head in shame
You must remember to use your shrew powers for good, not evil!
A more misanthropic version of this phenomena, and the Deadheads will hate me for it.
One night at work a co-worker and I were working away and trying to pass the time talking. Once again he tried to persuade me to listen to the Grateful Dead, the latest of many efforts on his part to make me “cool”. Now I hate the Dead’s music, I made many honest efforts to listen to them, but no dice. Lots of endless guitar noodling at the same dull tempo considered to be “great music” by an audience experiencing a chemically induced mass hallucination as far as I’m concerned.
Tiring of this same old discussion, I blurt out, “I hate the Grateful Dead, and I can’t wait until Jerry Garcia dies so I can piss on his grave!” Several people working around us heard me say it, but I didn’t care. I was having a bad night at work and wasn’t in the mood for it and vented my spleen a little.
That was a Saturday in August 1995, I heard about Garcia’s death on MTV when I was taking a break from cutting my lawn one afternoon several days later. I must admit I laughed, probably a little too long to be considered healthy.
That night at work my co-worker’s first words when he laid eyes upon me: “You cold-hearted son of a bitch! You killed him!” Oops. The next time I saw one of the other people who heard me say it, he said, “Remind me never to make you mad.”
But since Garcia was cremated and his ashes were scattered into the Indus or Ganges Rivers I guess I’ll never get to carry out the other part of my statement. Besides, those rivers are polluted enough already.
I killed Kurt Cobain. I was out with some friends and we were talking about the “accidental” overdose Cobain had had a short while before. I said it didn’t look accidental to me and Cobain was obviously suicidal. Later that same day, Cobain shot himself.