Death Be Not Proud, But It Can Be Entertaining

At work this morning, I was, as usual, ignoring any work-related duties and began thumbing through the latest copy of that vile publication, Rolling Stone, when I chanced upon a wee article about my favorite Pseudo-Messianic douche bag, Scott Stapp. Well, actually, I was reading it online due to the fact that I never paid the renewal bill and they’ve stopped sending it. They’re very mean-spirited in that way, without an ounce of loyalty to a long-time subscriber-But, I digress. The article is entitled: Scott Stapp’s Fall From Grace. Normally, I would automatically bypass any mention of Stapp or Creed, but it was a slow day at work, and by slow day I mean I had been using the empty Diet Coke cans scattered on my desk into constructing intricate reproductions of famous landmarks for a good two hours (My crowning moment being an exact replica of the Arc de Triomphe) and it had started to feel tedious and emotionally taxing. Plus, the damned aluminum cans kept falling and I was beginning to elicit suspicious looks from the management, so I decided to take a break and do a little light reading.

First line:

The day Scott Stapp decided to kill himself, his band, Creed, was the most popular rock act in the country.

Now, immediately, this article had my full attention- mention the words, “Scott Stapp” and “killing himself” in the same sentence and I’m all ears. Perhaps, my incessant bitching about the shitty content of Rolling Stone had not fallen upon deaf ears. If this publication would assist Scott Stapp in killing himself or at least report the lovely and glorious details, then I’m nominating Jann Wenner for a goddamned Nobel Peace Prize in Journalism AND I promise I will mail a check for the balance on my account-soon, really soon. THIS would be quality fucking journalism, my friends. These are the stories that, I, the average reader want to hear. Don’t tell me about the newest Kelly Clarkson album; give me the sordid details on a celebrity who gets on my nerves who has the good sense to take his or her own life. (Take a hint, Gwen)

I was so overcome with glee; I probably stopped reading after about the 8th word and drifted off into a private fantasy-world complete with images of torture and decapitation, culminating in his body being ravaged by a pack of wild dogs. It couldn’t be something quick and painless, after all, the mental anguish he personally inflicted upon me by ensuring that “Arms Wide Open” was played a minimum 86 times a day on the radio was more than enough reason to make him suffer, too. But, his death couldn’t be too tragic, either. He’s only about a hop, skip and a jump from self-proclaimed martyrdom anyway and something noble or heroic might just open him up to Sainthood. So, no baby saving and no burning-building rescues. If this backfires on me (no pun intended) and I have to witness a rampant outpouring of grief, I might as well put the gun to my own head.

Once dead, it would be a time for celebration; families should be reunited, flags should be flown. Tailor your activities, as you deem appropriate. Fire up the gas grill and barbecue Creed cds with that zesty lighter fluid marinade you’ve been meaning to use. Put on your black, pleather pants and stained wife-beater and grease yourself down like a pig or one of those sweaty Italian people in the Sopranos and stand on the front lawn with your arms “Wide Open” in a most Christ-like pose and ask someone to pour a bucket of water over you while you try to perfect your best tortured soul pose. Give that special loved-one a call that you stopped speaking to after you saw them wearing a Creed t-shirt. It’s a time for new beginnings and healing.

I tore myself away from my death fantasies and celebratory planning and continued reading.

Stapp himself, though, had become the most hated man in rock.

Had truer words ever been spoken, I ask you?

Stapp had also alienated his band mates with increasingly erratic behavior.

I’m going to assume this was some sort of typo and assume that by “erratic” the author really means “dickish.”

The Weathered tour had ended with a disastrous concert in Chicago, during which Stapp had been visibly intoxicated, at one point lying on his back in the middle of a song. Stapp admits now, "I don't even recall doing that show."

See? You know your show is fucking terrible when your lead singer has to get shit-faced drunk and black out so even he won’t recall it.

…He’d been drinking heavily and had become addicted to Percocet.

If I were Scott Stapp I, too, would drink heavily and regularly pilfer items from the medicine cabinet just to try to numb myself to the painful realization that I was a first-rate, pretentious asshole.

Once home, he quit all drugs, cold turkey.

I almost stopped reading here. The only time I could picture him as even mildly entertaining would be in conjunction with some bat-shit crazy drug stories, like he ate a Christmas tree or severed his testicles in a tragic (but, still funny) scrotum-piercing accident.

And the words I’ve waited all my life to hear him say:

"I wanted to end my life."

Now, by this point in the article I lost all self-control. I was a woman possessed; dancing and frolicking around my cubicle like a Republican with a new Supreme Court nominee while ignoring my co-workers who were giving me strange looks.

He'd become convinced that everyone involved with the band wanted him to die.

Apparently, the other band members were fans of my work. Sweet!!!

The article went on to recant stories of him drinking and playing with his assault-rifle collection. I had to get a glass of water and take a mild sedative to be able to continue reading; my excitement was palpable.

And, then it actually hit me- it was all written in the past tense. Reality hit me solidly in the face, sort of like the time I broke the 100-foot stipulation of the restraining order Gwen had against me and Gavin’s bodyguards, Neil and Bob, had bludgeoned me in the face with Institute cds stuffed in a monogrammed Hello Kitty pillowcase. Everything was not Zen on that particular day, I assure you. If he had, in fact, committed suicide, no doubt, my in-box would have already been flooded with thousands of congratulatory emails from friends and family members by now.

So, I stopped reading; I couldn’t muster the strength to continue and face the imminent disappointment. It was merely a cruel joke perpetuated by Rolling Stone, one that tugged mercilessness upon my little heartstrings and gave me hope- Hope for a douche bag’s demise. I’m not even going to post the link to the article- if you want to be as disappointed as me then go look it up your damn self. I’m going to hide in the bathroom and sulk.

PS, Jann- I may have sent the check, but I “forgot” to sign it.