My childhood icons are disappearing. First Mr. Rogers, then Mr. Wizard, and now the Hippy Dippy Weatherman with all my hippy dippy weather, man.
Aunt Dee-Dee let me see Carlin on Campus at way too young an age. I think George Carlin’s objective way of looking at all the stupid things we do as a collective really shaped my cynicism as a kid.
But now he’s dead, expired, perished, met his death, meet his end, passed away, been taken, yielded his breath, resigned his being, ended his days, ended his earthly career, breated his last, ceased to be, departed this life, is no more, gone off, dropped off, popped off, lost his life, sunk into the grave, dropped dead, given up the ghost, paid the debt to nature, shuffled off this mortal coil, taken his last sleep, gone the way of all flesh, handed in his chips, joined the greater number, crossed the Stygian ferry, crossed the bar, gone to Davy Jones’s locker, gone to the wall, received his death warrant, made his will, stepped out, gone out like a candle, come to an untimely end, caught his death, gone off the hook, kicked the bucket, bought the farm, turned up his toes, pushin’ up daisies,
and is, of course, stuck on the roof.
Thanks, George, for being the crotchety bastard we all needed to keep us in check.