You guys, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to do it. But I did. I killed Brando.
I killed him badder than you think. For you see, in the conversation I had with Tracie yesterday that was universally embraced as the best blog entry of its time, we spoke of Brando, but we spoke of him quickly. An introductory, off-hand comment about his recently-discovered poverty. A rhyming couplet in a musical about the life of AYN RAND.
But, in the interest of time, I left out the whole section of the convo in which Brando was totally holed up in Encino using his Oscar as a weapon to beat back creditors. How he hurled angry comments at his tiny black-and-white TV when he didn’t agree with the guests on Ricki Lake. How section eight housing was becoming too pricey and so he had to go on food stamps and subsisted on a diet entirely comprised of government-subsidized cheese. About how other destitute and/or crazy Hollywood stars were always trying to take advantage of his dementia, and how they would often break into his place to steal some of his government-subsidized cheese. MC Hammer took some cheese. The kid who played Cousin Oliver took some cheese. Sharon Stone took some cheese, and, for good measure, also his Oscar, and since then she’s been spotted running around the streets of Van Nuys wearing a dress made entirely of government-subsidized cheese, going door to door and delivering a deranged acceptance speech for best actress in The Mighty. Tracie noted she might have scratched out Brando’s name with a car key, and I might have noted that she smeared her own name over it. In government-subsidized cheese. Oh, the folly of life.
I know this is in bad taste. A MAN IS DEAD, PEOPLE. But really, I just had to apologize. I killed Brando. I have a legend’s blood on my hands.