The Dead Celebrity Fan Club

While in LA this past weekend, I came across an interesting ad in a local paper advertising nightly stays at the former apartment of late Doors singer Jim Morrison.

Now, while I’m not sure why anyone would pay to sleep in some dumpy, roach-infested ‘70’s shithole furnished with grimy bongs, dirty shag carpeting and beds infested with flesh-burrowing parasites passed on by these so-called Doors Fans/Uncleanly Hippie Vermin, I am sure there is probably no shortage of morons ready to shell out big bucks to break on through to the burn-out side.

When it comes to dead celebrities, Jim Morrison has got to carry a heavy load.

Ever been to his gravesite in Paris? It was so popular with adulated fans desperately craving to pay tribute to their favorite singer (y'know, by loitering for endless weeks, smoking copious amounts of highly-potent hydroponic skunkweed and scrawling “Long Live the Lizard King!” on any nearby tombstones), the cemetery had to fence off Morrison’s resting place. I presume these fans now smoke their weed in the same place local Parisiens relieve their bladders (which happens to be any fucking place they feel like).

Note: Can you believe 19th century composer Frederic Chopin is also buried at Pere Lachaise cemetery, and not a single knife-etched scrawling of “Long Live Rondo in E flat Major, Opus 16!” on his tombstone. Don’t worry though. I fixed that.

So, what is it with these dead celebs that keeps us hangin’ on?

Every year, the man with the hard hair on the nightly news tells us how old Elvis would have been on January 8th. Are we ever going to stop keeping track of this shit? Is there ever gonna be some point when we'll hear the news anchor say “today Elvis Presley would have been seventy-sev…ya know what? Who we kidding? By now, he would’ve been dead, alright! Can we finally let it go? Would that be OK?".

Marilyn Monroe is another dead celeb people just can’t say goodbye to. Why not? Hollywood's greatest actress? A celebrated legend? Come on...if Marilyn had lived any longer, she would’ve ended up becoming Anna Nicole Smith with the tact and fortitude of Robert Downey Jr at a complimentary ‘all-you-can-snoot’ cocaine smorgasbord.

What really frightens me is…who’s next? It’s scary to think that if Paris Hilton suddenly noshed on a bad batch of stuffed portabello mushroom caps and succumbed to food poisoning (because she likely has the immune system of a Lincoln Log), people may actually, years from now, lament about just what could’ve been...what talents had yet to be discovered...and what kinky sex tapes she might’ve recorded with her boyfriend in a drunken stupor.

So, lets leave the dead alone. Next time you’re in LA, don’t waste your hard-earned cash on an apartment even Jim Morrison wouldn’t have remembered himself if he were alive today. Spend it where its needed. Like the famous, high-priced Regency Beverly Wilshire. I hear that hotel couldn’t even afford to supply Zsa Zsa Gabor with her very own personal toilet paper maitre d’ last year. Let’s quit being hung up on the dead celebs and spread the wealth where it counts.

We must get Zsa Zsa her asswiper. And quick.