Man, you gotta love the British press. If I lived in London, I’d spend all day reading the papers. How can you not love a paper that gives the world a headline like this:
Friend of presidents, defrauder of millions: Texas elite bids farewell to ‘Kenny boy’
The story’s not bad, either. It contains a detail I hadn’t yet heard: Even on his last night alive, Lay was reportedly heckled by diners at an Italian restaurant in Colorado, prompting him to finish his chicken parmesan and leave hurriedly with his wife, Linda.
Each man’s death diminishes me, blah blah blah. But still, that’s kinda funny. A guy with a bad ticker probably shouldn’t be eating chicken parmesan.
“Heckled.” I wonder what form that took. This was Aspen or its environs, after all, and presumably Kenny Boy and Linda weren’t eating at the Olive Garden, but among others of their class, at some place where they know how to pronounce “trattoria.” How do folks like that heckle? A hip check as they pass the table returning from the restroom? A thrown breadstick? A loud request of the waiter? (“Can we have a new table? There seems to be a BAD SMELL in this corner of the room.”) Or outright, classic-definition-of-the-word heckling, as in “Hey, Kenny, I lost my ass on your stock, you jerk.” Somehow I doubt any of the comments had anything to do with the workers deprived of their pensions and savings. Rich people may be people, too, but the keenest pain is always reserved for themselves. They’re like everyone else in that way, too.
A tiny bit o’ bloggage: Two guys walk into a bar in Irkutsk, a much better headline than what’s on this very entertaining essay about the jokes of Communism.
All I’ve done this week is work. So I have to go do some more. Maybe I’ll surface later today, but in the meantime, rattle Kenny Boy’s dead thievin’ bones in the comments!