One thing I’ve learned in the 9 years of writing this mess of a blog is that autopsies in real life are nothing like autopsies on TV. The results don’t come back after commercial break and the autopsies aren’t done by Jack Klugman or Dana Delany. (But if they were done by Dana Delany and Jack Klugman’s ghost in real life, the results MIGHT come back after the commercial break.) So Peaches Geldof’s autopsy came back as “we’re not ready to write shit on her death certificate” and they had to order toxicology reports, which could take weeks.
Peaches got a piggyback ride from Mickey Rooney to the heaven on Monday after she died at her home in Kent. The Police say they didn’t find any hard drugs or a suicide note in Peaches’ house and they don’t think she was murdered. Some UK doctor who makes the rounds on TV shows and has never treated Peaches for anything thinks she might’ve died of bulimia or had a rare heart issue.
The cops still say that Peaches’ death is “unsuspicious,” but how in the hell can you call the death of a chick who was involved with Scientology at one time or another “unsuspicious“? Anytime anybody who was involved with Scientology dies, the cops should bring Xenu in and make that bitch sweat it out under the lights. If a 102-year-old woman died of natural cases and we come to find out that she once read a paragraph in Dianetics at a Barnes & Nobles while waiting for a movie, we should all hold our magnifying glasses up to her death! And then we should create an anti-Scientology shield of protection by sprinkling anti-depressants around us.