The New York City medical examiner’s office released a statement today saying that Philip Seymour Hoffman’s official cause of death is “acute mixed drug intoxication.” Based on what they found in his system, it sounds like he was speedballing it. I’m getting shades of my 6th grade teacher saying the word “SPEEDBALL” like it was the most evil word in the world while talking to us about the bad shit.
Toxicology reports show that at the time of his death, PSH had all kinds of the bad shit in his system including heroin, coke, benzodiazepines and amphetamine. Julie Bolcer, the medical examiner spokesperson, also said that his death was ruled as an accident.
Lord, may a kitten or a puppy video drop on my head right now. I’d even settle for a cute ferret video right about now. Okay, okay, I’ll settle for a damn meerkat video:
Well, this one stings. If you grew up in the 80s like I did, then a huge chunk of your childhood just broke off and floated away into the ocean of sadness to never be heard from again. Comic icon, writer, director, actor, producer and Chicago legend Harold Ramis died in Chicago this morning. He was 69. And yes, I’m sure he’s telling 69 jokes to the angels up in heaven.
Harold’s wife Erica Mann Ramis told The Chicago Tribune that he was surrounded by his family when he died early this morning from complications of an autoimmune disease. I did not know this, but Harold’s health problems started really fucking with him in 2010 after he had surgery for diverticulitis and had to learn how to walk again. He suffered a relapse a year later and never fully recovered.
I don’t have to sit here and type all of Harold’s movies, because you probably already know them all and have told your boss that you have to go home with the sads to watch Ghostbusters, Caddyshack, Groundhog Day, Stripes, Meatballs and my personal favorite Bedazzled (yes, I said Bedazzled!). If you’re 8 years old, you probably know Harold as Seth Rogen’s dad in Knocked Up. Harold recently directed a few episodes of The Office and he played Adam in Year One in 2009.
Harold Ramis is survived by his wife and his three kids.
Rest in peace, Egon. You will be missed.
The hills have the sads with the sound of weeping today, because the real Maria von Trapp (no, not the one that Carrie Underwood smeared the memory of) is now in heaven yodeling in front of the angels with her father, mother, stepmother and brothers and sisters. Maria von Trapp, the last surviving member of the real von Trapp family, died of natural causes in her sleep at her home in Stowe, Vermont on Tuesday. She was 99.
Maria von Trapp was the second oldest daughter and third child of Captain Georg von Trapp and his first wife Agathe Whitehead von Trapp. In the late 1930s, Maria and her family got the hell out of Nazi-occupied Austria and took their singing act throughout Europe and America. Sometime in the 1940s, the von Trapp family settled in Vermont and opened up a ski lodge. Maria’s stepmom, also Maria von Trapp, wrote a book about their family’s story and that book was of course turned into a musical and movie we all know. Because hos would get confused if two characters were named Maria, Maria’s name was changed to Louisa in the musical and movie. Maria von Trapp’s half-brother Johannes von Trapp had only nice things to say about her to AP:
“She was a lovely woman who was one of the few truly good people. There wasn’t a mean or miserable bone in her body. I think everyone who knew her would agree with that.”
Later in life, Maria worked as a lay missionary in Papua, New Guinea.
And Maria never said if she agreed with her family (and anybody with fully functional eyes, ears and souls) about how animatronic wooden statue Carrie Underwood is the last person on Earth who should play Maria von Trapp.
So long, farewell (I won’t type the rest), Maria von Trapp.
And I hope he wore that gold chain and chest hair-baring torn up short-sleeve sweatshirt while sashaying into the Gates of Heaven, because the angels deserve a panty creaming moment here and there too.
Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner are holding each other while doing the endless wall slide of sadness today, because their friend and comedy hero Sid Caesar died at his home in Los Angeles at the age of 91. Sid’s friend Larry King broke the news on Twitter.
After doing comedy revues while enlisted in the United States Coast Guard, Sid moved to Hollywood with his wife Florence Levy in the 1940s and did a few movies before starting a long TV career with an appearance on Milton Berle’s Texaco Star Theater. That led to his first show, The Admiral Broadway Revue, which led to the huge pioneering hit Your Show Of Shows. Sid won an Emmy for his work on the show in 1952. After Your Show of Shows ended in 1954, Sid starred in his own show Caesar’s Hour with the patron saint of my life Bea Arthur and Carl Reiner. Sid starred in a few TV shows and movies after that and if you’re an 80s ho like me, you probably know Sid from Grease (clip below) and the cinematic masterpiece Grease 2.
Sid got sober in 1977 after years of downing pills and the sweet nectar to deal with the stress of success and always having to be funny. When Sid turned 60, he told People that he knows himself more than ever:
“I’m really, truly making it. It doesn’t come in a flash but a little bit every day. I still need the Sidney part of me; he’s funny, he jumps around, he has crazy ideas. But then the other me, Sid, comes in and says, ‘That’s enough, Sidney, I’m too punched out and I’m tired of being depressed.’ Sid’s the one who keeps Sidney in line.”
Sid’s wife of almost 60 years Florence Levy died in 2010. He is survived by their two daughters and son.
Rest in peace, Sid.
And if Hollywood legends really die in threes, then everybody better form a deep, deep prayer circle around Betty White.
A million years before America’s current darling, Honey Boo Boo, (Side know: I know, I’m making a sad post even more depressing) slid out of Mama June’s chocha on an amniotic butter wave, there was Shirley Temple who danced and yodeled her way into the hearts of the world and brought happiness to America during shitty times. Last night at her home in Woodside, CA, Shirley Temple died of natural causes and took the Good Ship Lollipop up to heaven. She was 85. Animal crackers (and tears) in your soup.
When I was a kid, like most kids, I was dumb as shit and thought that Shirley Temple was a drink I ordered at Sizzler to look all grown up. And then I watched Heidi and my personal favorite Poor Little Rich Girl. Shirley started performing at the age of 3 in 1932. Fox signed her in 1934 and she did bit parts before starring in Stand Up and Cheer! and Bright Eyes, which made her a star and got her a special Juvenile Academy Award. After making millions of dollars and starring in dozens of movies including Heidi, Curly Top and A Little Princess, Shirley quit the Hollywood game at the age of 22.
Unlike the child stars of today, Shirley didn’t become a cokehead mess and never flashed her coochie lips while getting out of a Ferrari to party at Chateau Marmont (I think). Shirley married her second husband Charles Alden Black and raised her 3 kids, a daughter from her marriage to meat-packing heir John Agar and 2 kids with Charles. Shirley got into politics in the 60s when she became active in the Republican party in California and ran for Congress. She lost, but in 1969 she served as a representative to the 24th United Nations General Assembly and in 1974 President Ford made her the US Ambassador to Ghana. She was also the US Ambassador to Czechoslovakia from 1989 to 1992.
Shirley was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1972 and she had a mastectomy to remove the tumor. She went on radio shows and TV shows and became one of the first famous women to openly talk about breast cancer.
One of the last pictures of Shirley I could find is from the Screen Actors Guild Awards in 2006 when she was given a Lifetime Achievement Award.
Shirley’s family released this statement to AP:
“We salute her for a life of remarkable achievements as an actor, as a diplomat, and most importantly as our beloved mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and adored wife for fifty-five years of the late and much missed Charles Alden Black.”
Rest in peace, Shirley.
TMZ says that Lorenzo Lamas’ daughter and the Empress of Lucite’s one-time stepdaughter Shayne Lamas is in a coma and isn’t breathing on her own after she suffered pregnancy complications and miscarried her second baby. Shayne was about 16 weeks pregnant.
TMZ says that around 7:30 last night, Shayne of The Bachelor: London Calling and Couples Therapy collapsed at her home in Orange County. Shayne’s husband Nik Richie, who runs TheDirty.com, was with her and called for an ambulance. After she got to the hospital and was examined by doctors, they discovered that she was bleeding around her uterus. Specialists were called in after doctors couldn’t figure out where the bleeding was coming from. Shayne lost her baby during surgery. TMZ is hearing that doctors think she’ll make a full recovery, but right now she’s in a coma and not breathing on her own.
Shayne Lamas once declared war on natural beauty and raw glamour when she said that my personal Jesus Shauna Sand was “pure trash,” but I never held that against her because “pure trash” is a serious compliment and Shauna was once Shayne’s stepmother so that makes her a treasure by association. So I will light my Lucite candles, kneel in front of the autographed pair of Shauna Sand’s worn exquisite Lucite heels that I bought on eBay and say a prayer for Shayne Lamas. Everyone should do the same and if you don’t have an autographed pair of Shauna Sand’s worn exquisite Lucite heels, why are you talking to me?!
UPDATE: Lorenzo Lamas’ rep just told People that Shayne is awake and not in a coma.
“Shayne is not in a coma. She is conscious and stable. She knows what happened to her and she is upset. She was very ill last night. The ER doctors saved her life.”
And here’s a punch directly into the soft part of my soul. The Wall Street Journal is reporting the shitty, shitty, terrible, sad news that Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead in his Manhattan apartment at around 11:30 this morning. The Chief Medical Examiner is currently looking into his cause of death, but confirms that a friend found him in his West Village apartment. He was 46. And now we’re all seriously fucking sad, because he was one of the best.
TMZ and The New York Post are both saying that he died of an apparent overdose. Last year, PSH, who had been sober for 23 years, spent 10 days in rehab to detox from a heroin addiction. WSJ reporter Pervaiz Shallwani says that PSH was alone in his apartment and was found by writer David Katz who had been working with him on a project. Other reports are saying that PSH was found with a needle in his arm, but nothing’s been confirmed by the NYPD.
PSH is survived by his partner Mimi O’Donnell and their three young children.
This is just thirty tons of sad on thirty tons of sad on thirty tons of sad. Cancel the Super Bowl! But don’t cancel the Puppy Bowl, because we definitely need that today. This is just the worst. PSH was the best in everything from Doubt to Capote to Happiness to The Big Lebowski to The Master to Punch-Drunk Love to Flawless to ordering peanut butter and Penthouse in Magnolia. But my favorite of all PSH performances is his performance in Boogie Nights. Nobody wore a 70s tank top like him.
Rest in peace, Philip Seymour Hoffman.
The internet has lost a point in the trifecta of famous cats. Just a few weeks after he killed hos with his bitch gaze at the launch party for his Friskies commercial, Colonel Meow grew a pair of fluffy angel wings and flew off to heaven last night. Colonel Meow’s human slave gave the sad news on Facebook today:
Colonel Meow passed away yesterday evening. I will post more about the details when I’ve had a few days to grieve. Thank you so much for your understanding, Minions. Your love and support has meant the world to us both. -Slave Beast
Slave Beast didn’t say how Colonel Meow died, but I have to ask if Grumpy Cat has an alibi?
Colonel Meow was expected to lead when the cats of the world eventually go from reigning the internet to reigning real-life, so I’m sure he’s up in heaven ruling over the angels. Rest in peace, Colonel Meow.
Russell Johnson, The Professor to you and me, has gone off to the great, big deserted island in the sky to make coconut and bamboo phones for The Skipper, Gilligan, Thurston Howell, III and Lovey. And in the afterworld, they don’t refer to The Professor as “the rest.” Russell’s agent tells The Wrap that he died this morning from natural causes at his home on Bainbridge Island in Washington. The Professor was 89.
Russell Johnson was the last living dude from Gilligan’s Island and now only Ginger and Mary Ann are left. Mary Ann posted a picture of her with Gilligan and The Professor on Facebook today and wrote this message:
My 2 favorite people are now gone. The Professor past away this morning. My heart is broken.
It’s a sad, sad day and it’s really a sad, sad day for those of us who thought The Professor was so fucking hot. Nobody worked a baby blue button down shirt and khakis the way The Professor did. Here’s one of my favorite moments from Gilligan’s Island of TP and Ginger, wearing the second hottest peaches and cream dress ever, making out for Mr. Howell.
Rest in peace, Professor.
Demure Porn Blossom Elizabeth Starr Would Like To Warn You About The Dangers Of Getting Mega Chichis
Just like my favorite big-tittied rose in the garden of silicone Sheyla Hershey, porn star Elizabeth Starr has learned that having two Mama Junes sitting on your chest can sometimes earn you a one-way ticket to a triple-wide, two-story coffin. You can’t really tell by that picture, but Elizabeth has forty tons of hard plastic shoved into her tits and her doctor tells her that if she doesn’t get a double mastectomy, she could get a blood clot and die. So Elizabeth has to choose between dying a slow, painful death but keeping the balls of elegance on her chest. Or get rid of them and lead a somewhat normal life. And that whiner Sophie thought she had a difficult choice to make.
The blonde Big Ang tells Barcroft Media (via HuffPo) that her titty trauma started fifteen years ago when some crooked plastic surgeons lied to her when they told her that “string” breast implants were FDA approved. They weren’t. String breast implants were basically like Viagra for your tits except that shit was permanent. It turned tits into mutant globes that would not stop growing. Elizabeth got them, because she thought having CoCo’s ass on her chest would take her further in her porn career. HuffPo explains “string” implants like this:
The procedure involves putting synthetic polypropylene ‘strings’ into the breasts. The strings generate fluid production and then absorb the fluid, causing the breasts to continuously expand over time. The implants were banned in the United States and Europe a few years after Starr’s operation.
After the mother of two (six if you include her tits) got the surgery, her tits grew to a size O (for Oprah) and she was immediately hit with all kinds of health problems. She’s gone under the knife 63 times for corrective surgery and she’s always bruising herself because her tits hit the wall before she even sees the wall. The 44-year-old whose tits look like two dew drops sitting on a pristine daisy petal says that she’s speaking out to help others.
“A mastectomy would take away my livelihood and I don’t know what else I would do. It’s hard when you have been a victim of something and it’s even harder when you choose a path in life where people might look down on you and think, ‘She deserved it.’ But I wouldn’t wish this on anyone and I hope my story will act as a warning.”
Wasn’t it Edgar Allen Poe who said, “There is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in the proportion.” He must’ve been a future see’er, because he was totally talking about Elizabeth Starr. Well, if Elizabeth decides to save her life by getting that double mastectomy, she’ll still have her lips and those things are at least an F cup. A G cup if she pouts.
(Pic via Pomponik)