Corey Haim: Pale Death is a failed actor.

Corey Haim wasn’t bothering anyone that I know of, and according to his mother he hadn’t been feeling well lately. And didn’t that very same thing just happen to Brittany Murphy, another one of those quasi-kid actors? For heaven’s sake, one day she’s not feeling well so she decides to take a shower, and then drops dead faster than you can say, “Anna Nicole Smith and her son are both dead?”

Marie Osmond’s kid, in spite of the fact that he was not a talented actor or performer — and neither is his mother — jumped from a building not very far from where Marilyn Monroe lies in decay. I could go on for days about these deaths, but I prefer to concentrate on the living and wonder why they have been spared. Mind you, my vast intelligence does not entitle me to inside information about life and death, but it does give me a keen sense of knowing when something is wrong with the universe. For the love of god, people should have an innate sense of these things by now. Why do I have to explain everything?

One shudders to think that perhaps the pale grip of Death is now heavily entrenched in that dump called Hollywood. Even if one to were to venture out into the entirely plausible idea that something in the air, something other-worldly, hates Hollywood, why would any such something opt to harvest these bargain basement thespians and their children? Maybe it’s God or Satan who does these things? Certainly those two little monsters love to kill without concern, but something else is involved here and Pale Death, our eternally unwelcome visitor (unless you’re a racehorse) is merely a blue collar guy with a sickle who comes to pick up the unfortunate and probably complains about his boss and pension plan while doing so. Death is mad about something and he might even be living in the worst of all places — a basement apartment somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.

While Corey Haim, pitiful creature that he was, lies cold in a morgue, actresses like Elaine Stritch, Olivia deHavilland, Joan Fontaine, Celeste Holm, Doris Day and countless others sit happily in their homes far away from the disgusting dumpiness of Hollywood. These women were very famous in their day but now they’re pushing 100 years of age. Why? Why has death spared them? Sounds like Death likes old broads, doesn’t it?

Why is Barbara Walter’s still lisping her way through life whilst hanging around with that ancient reptilian creature named Lauren Bacall? Iin fairness to Death, Bacall gets around only at night. She must sit on a rock in the sun for an entire day or else she’s a goner, and there is nothing Death can do to help. So he still has a little bit of fair play left in him.

The answer I believe is that the survivors are those who have moved away from Hollywood in the literal sense, and that Death doesn’t get around as much as he used to. He’s either hanging around in Hollywood waiting for his agent to get him a gig on All My Children or “the tragic events of 9-11 that changed all of our lives forever” has made it hard for him to get on a plane out of LAX. This week he tried Burbank airport and guess who had the misfortune of living there — besides everyone who does? You guessed it, Corey Haim.

Of course one can argue that people die all over the world and in the USA every day, but that’s all done by offshore people who work for Death in India and Pakistan.

Simply put, Death is mad at Hollywood because Death, like countless insecure egomaniacs before him, went to Hollywood to find fame and all he got was the shit end of the stick. As a matter of fact, it’s rumoured that his first act of vengeance was pushing Peg Entwistle off the “H” on the famous Hollywood Sign. Death did, however, make a valiant attempt to save Bette Davis, but after quite a few reprieves, he eventually had to use her for kindling wood or maybe to light one of those long, brown, skinny “More” cigarettes. I heard he smokes them.

Whomever it is that doles out the daily names to Mr. Death — and those names almost always belong to the most exceedingly mundane people — is getting some pretty shoddy work for his money. Sadly I fear that Death, is a bitter, failed actor and he discards his daily job jar; preferring instead to carry out his grim fury on celebrities and their children.

An FBI profiler would say that he is a guy in his early 40s, probably gay, homely, and in love with sassy theater hags like the aforementioned Elaine Stritch. (Which is why she too is still alive). He steers clear of A-listers because he wants to be one of them, but he is also shrewd. He carefully waited until Farrah Fawcett was a B-lister to make her sick and then waited to kill her only after her reality death show made her an instant C-lister.

Oh well, I can’t go around saving the world, but I would stay the hell out of Hollywood or anything within bus range.

With fondest regrets,

Damien