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Thread: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

  1. #1321

    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Shatter View Post
    Sad.

  2. #1322
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Khieran View Post
    Regardless of how you feel about her husband's and son's presidencies, Barbara Bush was a wonderful First Lady, and deserves all the respect she is getting.

    And of course, Trump's statement of condolences had the wrong date on it... because of course it did.

  3. #1323
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Shatter View Post
    Given his achondroplasia dwarfism, the acloholism is not at all surprising, given how painful that particular kind of dwarfism is purported to be.

    It's sad, but he never thought he'd live to a ripe old age, apparently.
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  4. #1324
    Ellsworth M. Toohey
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Ackar View Post
    "Each president in this photo did things I disagreed with politically. Quite a lot, in fact, for most of them.

    "And yet I never doubted that every single one of them acted based on core values, including love of country—not, primarily, love of self."
    — David Priess
    Maybe, at some level, they loved their country (although one of their wives publicly admitted she had no pride in her country until her husband was elected). But without exception, all of them sought the Oval Office primarily because they love themselves. You don't run for that job unless you have an incredibly massive ego, no matter how humble you may seem on the outside. If your primary motivation is love of country, there are many more direct ways you can fulfill it than running for president.

    (That doesn't mean I'm equating them with Trump, who, unlike most of his predecessors, never really thought he'd become president and just wanted some publicity. At least the others actually expected to do the job.)

  5. #1325

    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    TBH to survive the process you need "This much ego to ride". I mean you have to love yourself enough to not lose confidence when the mud slinging moves up to using trebuchets and 55 gallon drums of mud.
    "When you name your baby Jeeves...you've pretty much set up his career for life. You don't see many Hit Men, for example, named Jeeves. "Pardon me sir, but I must wack you now."
    — Jerry Seinfeld

  6. #1326
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    When I think of former presidents, I may not agree with them, but they always at least seemed to be following what they thought best for the country for the most part. Yeah, not 100% of the time, but mostly (IMO)

    Trump is only out for himself and his rich friends. The only time he does something good for the country is by accident while trying to make himself or his friends richer.

  7. #1327
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Khieran View Post
    When I think of former presidents, I may not agree with them, but they always at least seemed to be following what they thought best for the country for the most part.
    I agree. My quibble is with the tweet's dismissal of ego as the main motivation for seeking the Oval Office.

    Quote Originally Posted by Khieran
    Trump is only out for himself and his rich friends. The only time he does something good for the country is by accident while trying to make himself or his friends richer.
    I wonder. His businesses reportedly have taken a downturn since he became president -- it would have been much easier for him and much better for his wallet had he followed presidential norms rather than blowing convention to pieces.

  8. #1328
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool


  9. #1329
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Eremius View Post
    I hope this little ascension into the afterlife doesn't put her off from flying. Statistically speaking, it's still the safest way to travel.

  10. #1330
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Eremius View Post
    I am truly surprised it took that long.

    She had some very unfortunate struggles with serious mental issues, IIRC.
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  11. #1331
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Yes, bipolar. She did a lot of work educating people about it.

  12. #1332
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Delores Mulva View Post
    Yes, bipolar. She did a lot of work educating people about it.
    That I didn't know.

    Good for her.

    Lots of stigma around mental illness when she was at the height of her difficulties in the news.
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  13. #1333
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool


  14. #1334
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Delores Mulva View Post
    Highly recommended to anyone here: The Right Stuff, his recounting of the early days of the American space program. (Not so highly recommended: His novels, though YMMV)
    Last edited by PPatty; May 15th, 2018 at 09:57 AM.

  15. #1335

    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Eremius View Post
    This is seriously one of the poorest edited obituary articles from a news organization that I have read.

    Dean Cain, STARE of SUPERMAN. That's the glaring one, but blech. I had to stop reading after that.
    Last edited by Tinthalas Tigris; May 16th, 2018 at 10:58 AM.

  16. #1336
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    One of the most significant American authors of the last 50 years:

    Pulitzer Prize Winning Author Philip Roth Dies at 85

    He largely made his reputation with this, still the best piece of fiction written on the general subject matter:

    Spoiler for Most famous excerpts from Portnoy's Complaint:
    Then came adolescence–half of my waking life spent locked behind the bathroom door, firing my wad down the toilet bowl, or into the soiled clothes in the laundry hamper, or splat, up against the medicine-chest mirror, before which I stood in my dropped drawers so I could see how it looked coming out. Or else I was doubled over my flying fist, eyes pressed closed but mouth wide open, to take that sticky sauce of buttermilk and Clorox on my own tongue and teeth–though not infrequently, in my blindness and ecstasy, I got it all in the pompadour, like a blast of Wild-root Cream Oil. Through a world of matted handkerchiefs and crumpled Kleenex and stained pajamas, I moved my raw and swollen penis, perpetually in dread that my loathsomeness would be discovered by someone stealing upon me just as I was in the frenzy of dropping my load. Nevertheless, I was wholly incapable of keeping my paws from my dong once it started the climb up my belly. In the middle of class I would raise a hand to be excused, rush down the corridor to the lavatory, and with ten or fifteen savage strokes, beat off standing up into a urinal. At the Saturday afternoon movie I would leave my friends to go off the candy machine–and wind up in a distant balcony seat, squirting my seed into the empty wrapper from a Mounds bar. On an outing of our family association, I once cored an apple, saw to my astonishment (and with the aid of my obsession) what it looked like, and ran off into the woods to fall upon the orifice of the fruit, pretending that the cool and mealy hole was actually between the legs of that mythical being who always called me Big Boy when she pleaded for what no girl in all recorded history had ever had. “Oh shove it in me, Big Boy,” cried the cored apple that I banged silly on that picnic. “Big Boy, Big Boy, oh give me all you’ve got,” begged the empty milk bottle that I kept hidden in our storage bin in the basement, to drive wild after school with my vaseline upright. “Come, Big Boy, come,” screamed the maddened piece of liver that, in my own insanity, I bought one afternoon at a butcher shop and, believe it or not, violated behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson.

    It was at the end of my freshman year of high school–and freshman year of masturbating–that I discovered on the underside of my penis, just where the shaft meets the head, a little discolored dot that has since been diagnosed as a freckle. Cancer. I had given myself Cancer. All that pulling and tugging at my own flesh, all that friction, had given me an incurable disease. And not yet fourteen! In bed at night the tears rolled from my eyes. “No!” I sobbed. “I don’t want to die! Please–no!” But then, because I would very shortly be a corpse anyway, I went ahead as usual and jerked off into my sock. I had taken to carrying the dirty socks into bed with me at night so as to be able to use one as a receptacle upon retiring, and the other upon awakening.

    If only I could cut down to one hand-job a day, or hold the line at two, or even three! But with the prosper of oblivion before me, I actually began to set new records for myself. Before meals. After meals. During meals. Jumping up from the dinner table, I tragically clutch at my belly–diarrhea! I cry, I have been stricken with diarrhea!–and once behind the locked bathroom door, slip over my head a pair of underpants that I have stolen from my sister’s dresser and carry rolled in a handkerchief in my pocket. So galvanic is the effect of cotton panties against my mouth–so galvanic is the word “panties”–that the trajectory of my ejaculation reaches startling new heights: leaving my joint like a rocket it makes right for the light bulb overhead, where to my wonderment and horror, it hits and it hangs. Wildly in the first moment I cover my head, expecting an explosion of glass, a burst of flames–disaster, you see, is never far from my mind. Then quietly as I can I climb the radiator and remove the sizzling gob with a wad of toilet paper. I begin a scrupulous search of the shower curtain, the tub, the tile floor, the four toothbrushes–God forbid!–and just as I am about to unlock the door, imagining I have covered my tracks, my heart lurches at the sight of what is hanging like snot to the toe of my shoe. I am the Raskolnikov of jerking off–the sticky evidence is everywhere! Is it on my cuffs too? in my hair? my ear? All this I wonder even as I come back to the kitchen table, scowling and cranky, to grumble self-righteously at my father when he opens his mouth full of red jello and says, “I don’t understand what you have to lock the door about. That to me is beyond comprehension. What is this, a home or a Grand Central Station? “. . . privacy . . . a human being . . . around here never,” I reply, then push aside my dessert to scream, “I don’t feel well–will everybody leave me alone?”

    After dessert -- which I finish because I happen to like jello, even if I detest them -- after dessert I am back in the bathroom again. I burrow through the week’s laundry until I uncover one of my sister’s soiled brassieres. I string one shoulder strap over the knob of the bathroom door and the other on the know of the linen closet: a scarecrow to bring on more dreams. “Oh beat it, Big Boy, beat it to a red-hot pulp –” so I am being urged by the little cups of Hannah’s brassiere, when a rolled-up newspaper smacks at the door. And sends me and my handful an inch off the toilet seat. “–Come on, give somebody else a crack at that bowl, will you?” my father says. “I haven’t moved my bowels in a week.”

    I recover my equilibrium, as is my talent, with a burst of hurt feelings. “I have a terrible case of diarrhea! Doesn’t that mean anything to anyone in this house?”–in the meantime resuming the stroke, indeed quickening the tempo as my cancerous organ miraculously begins to quiver again from the inside out.

    Then Hannah’s brassiere begins to move. To swing to and fro! I veil my eyes, and behold!–Lenore Lapidus! who has the biggest pair in my class, running for the bus after school, her great untouchable load shifting weightily inside her blouse, oh I urge them up from their cups, and over, LENORE LAPIDUS ACTUAL TITS, and realize in the same split second that my mother is vigorously shaking the doorknob. Of the door I have finally forgotten to lock! I knew it would happen one day! Caught! As good as dead!
    “Open up, Alex. I want you to open up this instant.”

    It’s locked, I’m not caught! And I see from what’s alive in my hand that I’m not quite dead yet either. Beat on then! Beat on! “Lick me, Big Boy–lick me a good hot lick! I’m Lenore Lapidus big fat red-hot brassiere!”

    “Alex, I want an answer from you. Did you eat French fries after school? Is that why you’re sick like this?”

    “Nuhhh, nuhhh.”

    “Alex, are you in pain? Do you want me to call the doctor? Are you in pain, or aren’t you? I want to know exactly where it hurts. Answer me.”

    “Yuhh, yuhhh –”

    “Alex, I don’t want you to flush the toilet,” says my mother sternly. “I want to see what you’ve done in there. I don’t like the sound of this at all.”

    ..........................

    The bus, the bus, what intervened on the bus to prevent me from coming all over the sleeping shikses arm–I don’t know. Common sense, you think? Common decency? My right mind, as they say, coming to the fore? Well, where is this right mind on that afternoon I came home from school to find my mother out of the house, and our refrigerator stocked with a big purplish piece of raw liver? I believe that I have already confessed to the piece of liver that I bought in a butcher shop and banged behind a billboard on the way to a bar mitzvah lesson. Well, I wish to make a clean breast of it, Your Holiness. That–she–it–wasn’t my first piece. My first piece I had in the privacy of my own home, rolled round my cock in the bathroom at three-thirty -- and then had again on the end of a fork, at five-thirty, along with the other members of that poor innocent family of mine.

    So. Now you know the worst thing I have ever done. I fucked my own family’s dinner.

  17. #1337
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    The only novel of his I've read is The Human Stain, which I loved. I'm definitely going to read more of his work.
    'This world may be another planet's hell.'{Aldous Huxley}
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  18. #1338
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Not a celeb for most, but the people here likely know him (especially the WoW players): John "Totalbiscuit" Bain, 33, cancer:

    https://kotaku.com/game-critic-total...Kotaku_Twitter

    EDIT: and as befits a gamer, his death post is number 1337 in the thread.
    Last edited by Delores Mulva; May 24th, 2018 at 06:01 PM.

  19. #1339
    Ellsworth M. Toohey
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Delores Mulva View Post
    his death post is number 1337 in the thread.
    Your post shows as #1338 on my screen:

    1338.png

  20. #1340
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    Re: The Graffe's Celebrity Death Pool

    Quote Originally Posted by Delores Mulva View Post
    Not a celeb for most, but the people here likely know him (especially the WoW players): John "Totalbiscuit" Bain, 33, cancer:

    https://kotaku.com/game-critic-total...Kotaku_Twitter
    Damn shame. Get your regular checkups done, guys!
    "Silver bullet solutions are rare, silver bullet sales commonplace"

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