Baby It’s Scolds Outside

A famous American radio personality died last week. And we rejoiced.

We didn’t just rejoice. We had fun with his death. We fantasized about it. We added him to our Great American Tour of Ignominy, peeing on graves across the land.

We weren’t alone — “Rest in Piss” became an instantly popular expression. Those souls incapable of the full urinary imagination settled themselves with the thought of dancing on his final resting place.

Great fun was had by all!

And then, surely as night follows day, the scolds came out.

We’re not sure where “don’t speak ill of the dead” comes from. It’s a perverse form of politeness, perhaps tinged with a sense of fairness, the dead, after all, not being able to speak back. And yes, if you’re attending the funeral of an acquaintance who, like all of us, had their less-than-better moments, you probably don’t wanna be caught snickering in the back. Decorum must be observed.

So sure, don’t crash funerals just to make an ass of yourself. Don’t pee in the punchbowl at wakes. You’re just inviting bad karma that way.

But we’re not talking about that, are we? We’re not talking about going around being jerks like the Westboro clowns. We’ll wait a decent amount of time before unzipping our fly and going all Manneken Pis on the remains.

No, we’re talking about a public condemnation of a public figure. Y’know, like we did while he was alive. Why hold back now?

Ah, but what about the Grieving Family? What about the four wives, surely at least one of whom must be in a bad mood? Well, she accepted her fate in 2010 when she married him. She knew what she was getting into.

Besides, every media outlet besides HuffPo went with the bland “controversial talk-show host” angle, and not the more accurate “Bigoted King of Talk Radio”, so she should be fine if she stays off Twitter.

But setting aside what came out of his mouth, don’t you have to give him credit for changing the business of AM radio? Don’t you have to admit he was at least funny when punching down? Well, no, you don’t. You don’t have to grant a goddamn thing. Yours is but one voice in the maelstrom, and it’s not upon you to provide a Fair Assessment of his work, not when you’re aiming your fetid stream at its consequences. Let others insist that Hitler was a vegetarian who loved his dog.

But our favorite, the one that set us off, was this gem: What does taking joy in his death say about you?

Yeah, man, let’s talk about souls. While we’re emptying our bladder on the memory of one of America’s more destructive humans in recent generations, let’s slap that ol’ dick on the table and whip out our philosophy degree.

The man was a force of evil in the world. With the megaphone of that business-shattering radio career, he broadcast that evil across the land, infesting other souls with the validation that they, too, could not give a shit about their fellow humans and be okay about it. The man was poison in the airwaves, and if you don’t feel joy at the removal of his voice (and the rest of him with it), it’s your soul we question, your elevation of a wan ethics over the reality of who he was.

You’re damn right we’re happy. One less shithead walks the Earth. Rush Limbaugh is dead, and our country is better for it.