Deadly Measures

This is a brand new casket from the "Hunting Accident" Fall collection.

This is a brand new casket from the “Hunting Accident” Fall collection.

 

From the world of sport to the world of smut, there sure have been a lot of folks turning into big bags of dead lately.  So many in fact that it’s becoming difficult to rank them in terms of either hilariousness or importance.  Thankfully, that’s where The Spew comes in.  The top three corpses hot off the embalming table are the following:

 

Can’t Break LaMotta – Wife beaters everywhere barely had the energy to blacken an eye upon hearing the news that their most senior member, Jake “But These Are The Jewels From The Belt” LaMotta, heard the ten-count and final bell for the last time.  I guess they finally got him down, Ray.  But LaMotta’s greatest contributions other than being Robert DeNiro’s mysoginistic muse for “Raging Bull” or Floyd Mayweather’s personal hero and inspiration is the boundless potential CTE and concussion research his Neanderthal brain can provide.  Think about it.  This fuckin guy fought Ray Robinson six times and still didn’t get decked for the first time in his career til his 103rd fight with Danny Nardico (and I don’t have to look that shit up to confirm it either).  And remember his style was to take like ten shots to land one.  Fast forward half a dozen decades and the guy was as lucid as any average grandfather til his nineties.  Then there’s fighters who get KO’d once in the amateurs and are never the same.  I don’t know what the secret to LaMotta’s astonishing capacity for punishment was, but some experts say it was a steady regimen of spousal abuse.

 

Brain Dead – An APB went out for Hulk Hogan when the greatest wrestling manager of all time, which is a prestigious title indeed, Bobby “The Brain” Heenan, bit the big leg drop and went up to that squared circle in the sky.  Which is to say he croaked.  And judging by his hideous appearance the last few years, the sweet relief of the Grim Reaper couldn’t have come too soon.  Perhaps due to contamination from that weasel suit he was forced to wear, Heenan experienced the joy of contracting everyone’s favorite cancer known as “Roger Ebert Disease”, in which some type of jaw cancer or something basically eats your face off.  The Brain looked like anything but a humanoid by the end.  But at least now he can be reunited in the true Sky Dome with his old pal Gorilla Monsoon, and considering the venerable Wreatlemania worth of dead wrestlers from the eighties and nineties jam-packing the place, announcing’s finest duo will have plenty of “Death Matches” to call.

 

Nude World Order – Newscasters were put in the awkward position of trying not to giggle when reading the announcement that pajama-clad old codger and smut peddler disguised as an art dealer, Hugh Hefner, finally did what his magazine’s been doing for years and died.  Don’t get me wrong, an errant Playboy or three strategically strewn about the woods (who were those horny Good Samaritans that left such selfless and well-received caches I wonder?) certainly had an important place in the long porn droughts of any lad’s youth, but nowadays the mag’s only useful if some random hot chick from an old sitcom you forgot about shows her titties.  By the way, Mimi from “The Drew Carey Show” has got some cannons.  But other than that, reading a Playboy is almost as outdated and pointless as reading a book.  The real question surrounding Hefner’s death isn’t about technological advancements in nakedness distribution, or the blurred and highly interpretive line between art and pornography, it’s which one of his three soulless blonde bimbos got the biggest hunk of his estate?  Would that be Mandy, Sandy, or Candy?  I just can’t decide.

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