My sweet little poptart Ruslana, "dead" at 20

Shit Shit Shit. I REALLY didn't want to have to throw her off that balcony, but come on, what else could I fucking do? She was calling Lynne for Christ's sake, and you know how, what can I say, fragile? fruitcake? fucking off her meds? Lynne can get. All she'd need is to hear my Russkie Poontang calling from our undisclosed Wall Street Love Nest location with all the fucking deets. I taught her her one word of English. Vice. You should have heard her. In that little baby voice. Vice. Vice. I loved it when she played stewardess on Air Force Two. Coffee Tea or Ruslana, oh shit. Give me two sugars, bitch. Oh well, up and over. Over and out. Roger that, Boris.

Tim Russert, roundfaced fuck, "dead" at 58

Finally somebody worth shitting on croaks. Russert, or Russell, as I liked to call him, to his fat round oval moon face, was a total fucking disaster, just sitting there waiting to attack and smudge my sterling fucking reputation. How dare that miserable little weasel contradict the lies I was telling! Who the fuck did he think he was? Ohhh, a journalist. I don't think so. A faggy actor, if you ask me. And look at him, the pussy, dead from one measly little heart attack. Man up, shit brindle. I've had EIGHT! Didn't stop me. Half my body is composite materials, maybe, and I never sleep, but I'm still here. I love that song. Anyway, guess who can't say that anymore? Fucking Russell, that's who.