I wake up this morning to my radio telling me that George Carlin is dead.
The day has to get better after that.
I don’t have much to say here, since trying to say something profound about a man who just poured genius—profane genius—off his tongue whenever he opened his mouth is a useless task. All the obituaries for him are going to be sad because of how shallow they’ll seem. Face it, the only person who could write a decent obit for George Carlin is George Carlin, and he’s otherwise occupied with being dead.
And I want to remind everyone that George Carlin is dead. He didn’t “pass away,” or “leave us,” or any of the other phrases that he couldn’t stand that try to soften up death. He’s dead. He died. He didn’t even “join the choir invisible.” He just died. (Want to be specific? Okay, heart attack. He died from a heart attack.)
And the world is now a far less funny place.
At least we still have Lewis Black.