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Dick Blow
B. 12.16.00 Diaryland / D. 4.28.01 Diaryland
Loss of Momentum/Litigious Celebrity Management

No more cheeseburgers! I eat a cheeseburger every few months, usually at a diner on a weekend when my feeding hours are off and I get really hungry, dumb hungry. I order a bacon cheeseburger—the deluxe, for the french fries and tomato—and await its arrival in a hunched, bestial, numb-fingered state. When it finally comes I fill the cheeseburger with every fixing available. Then I feed. Then I get sleepy. I go home and nap. I wake up and taste that cheeseburger all night. I always regret eating a cheeseburger.
I meant, to mark the passing of Dick Blow, to mourn him, to make a sacrifice in his honor—no more cheeseburgers. To mark the passing of an entertaining chappie and lovable rogue, isn't it more customary to make a sentimental toast?
To Dick Blow, chiselled out of lint—all that remained after the lawyers moved in on your first incarnation—a salute to your stamina under the circumstances. To Dick Blow, with the skinny young wife locked in the bathroom, a lawsuit in storage—cheers to you for extrapolating plausible behavior from a mean face.
Cheers to your insights and finely-drawn, colorful characters. Cheers to your pantsless-ness
With you, a piece of frontier America vanishes. Your entries are buffalo ghosts.

Consolation site: The Mexican

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