Why?:Bill Hicks died

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Hello there. I am back from the dead. Where's my arms and legs? Am I only a face with a cigarette, bordered by a dark frame with four corners? Cool!

Hi. I'm Bill Hicks, and I'm dead now. Maybe.

Our good friends the NWO (New World Order) manufactured this story that I died from cancer in 1994. I don't know where I am writing from, because it appears that I'm communicating something, which obviously means I'm not dead. For all I know, I could be texting from a cell phone in Heaven, or better yet, typing away using only the power of my mind in a parallel dimension, from Purgatory. Or I could be in Hell, with a giant cable attached to the back of my neck like in The Matrix, intercepted by Denis Leary's CIA satellite to appropriate my material for his next HBO comedy special upon humanity.

Wait. Isn't Glenn Beck doing the same thing to Alex Jones like Denis did to me?

Creepy. Just because Alex and I are from Texas.

Fuck the whining little maggots who create stories to keep you, the sheep and lemmings of all colors, creeds, and walks of life in your precious little environments, safe and warm like a bug in a rug from the sounds of Al Jazeera. Of course, the way I went out? They're all lies. How I left this planet to occupy another plane of existence is a mystery, even to me.

I want to know why I really died.

Now stop sucking Satan's cock to the sounds of Justin Bieber and Rebecca Black, and listen to me play.

I Went Out Like JFK Before The Ad Industry Fucked Me[edit]

Bill hicks shadow.jpg
Don fucking Draper. Back in my day, they didn't really have shows about advertising. Now they do. Assholes created this TV show Mad Men to celebrate this shit, and a comeback to the old days, and...fuck this. Kill yourselves.

Now this I like. Not only do I want my rock stars dead, I go out in a blaze of glory, assassinated in my prime. The problem is that I was just trying to make a point onstage with my comedy by fake-shooting a gun to my head, and collapsing to the ground. Most didn't get it, which is suspected of you, an audience filled with dumb fucks sticking your heads in the sand without using critical thinking, logic, and scientific evidence that JFK was the victim of a boy's club/Ivy League fraternity prank gone awry. But it doesn't matter now. I'm dead! Ha ha!

I might have been at least five or six years off from being in The 27 Club, though. And truthfully, I wasn't really into guns. I talked shit about the military industrial complex until I was blue in the face, but I'm not into the gun thing. I wanted to evolve and read books, while the rest of you are in L.A. hanging out by the pool. So, I'm not into guns.

Besides, I don't think I want to be singled out by a lone gunman, or many gunmen, and a Warren Commission concludes nothing about my assassination, especially during the times the world was ruled by people like from that TV show Mad Men. Besides, those that go into advertising and marketing...kill yourself.

Wait. Who's there? Is that Don Draper?

Don: "Bill's going for that nihilism dollar again. It'll sell if he tones it down some, like Lady Gaga."

Fuck you, you evil scumbag from Satan's ass. I want to know why I fucking died! Is that so difficult?

Don: "Hm, that sounds like a sense of rebirth, rebirth with self-actualization. That should push tons of Katy Perry units."

I can't believe this shit.

Denis Leary[edit]

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This guy Denis still looks good after over thirty years of having space aliens up his rectum. Don't worry, we know none of you are watching his show Rescue Me

This is what I heard. The aliens, the same ones who landed in Roswell, New Mexico in a tin can of a flying saucer, died there and their souls--about two or three of them--entered Denis Leary through his rectum. The souls inside Denis told him to become the greatest stand-up comic of all time, and to kill this upstart named Bill Hicks (me) by completely stealing my act, recording my material on a best selling album called No Cure for Cancer, while standing behind a phalanx of Hollywood lawyers and managers that I would be too pussy and broke to fight against. The aliens said that if you do this, Hicks will die of cancer, and Leary will become a big fucking star in show business. And guess what? I died. What a nasty fucking coincidence. My smoking jokes, his smoking jokes. What a fucking tragedy.

Well not really. Have any of you guys watched this show called Rescue Me? It's been on a while, gets ratings, anybody watch it?...uhh...of course not. AND, does anybody here know who Denis Leary is? Meaning, if I say Denis Leary, you will forget the fuck about people like the Kardashians...Charlie Sheen...Justin Bieber? No. YouTube stars are more famous than the guy who wrote the song "Asshole." Would you rather watch Rescue Me, or The Sopranos? Rescue Me, or Mad Men?

I don't think that's why I died, either.

The New World Order Under Barack Obama[edit]

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Isn't that neat?

During the Los Angeles Riots way back when, I created a bit about Officer Nigger Hater. That sounds a little strong, doesn't it? Especially since we now got a United States Ruler of the Universe, Barack Obama, who as far as I know about him, is President Buzz Killer working for the Old Boy Network. In these enlightened times, when we now have someone who isn't the descendant of slave owners who sits around and plays Toby Keith tunes all day...they probably wouldn't know, nor care, who the fuck I am...just like before. Corporations barely knew who I was back then, if at all. Now everybody knows that corporations run the government, there is no real New World Order, there are no more secrets, Jay Leno still has The Tonight Show and...even more so now, why would they care about anything I say? Why do they not care about me?

That sucks. Nobody cared enough to want me dead back then, as well.


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"Bill Hicks died...whatever. It's time for our news segment, Doggies and Kitties."

Here's how it happened. A little fairy godmother who looked like Miley Cyrus scared the shit out of me, and I fainted. She then waved her magic wand to the tune of Achy Breaky Heart, I got pancreatic cancer and died. Instantly.

That's how a lot of people want to hear it. I'm not even sure it was cancer. Isn't it a little dramatic of them to play the cancer angle, like trying to make me less famous than I never was? When people die, on the news they say, "Bill Hicks, dead at the age of 100 from natural causes. Hicks was known as the most influential comic of the late 20th century..." but all I really got was, "Bill Hicks, dead at the age of 100...he died? Oh. Wow. From cancer? How disappointing. What did he do, and why am I announcing this on the air?...I'm bored. In other news..."

Well I admit that I did die from cancer. Not the reason though.


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This guy I was really into.

Here's what I got to tell you...I was big on Jesus. See, I had you all fooled that I was a stone-cold atheist, but in reality, I believed in our Savior. Don't believe why I believe in Him? Well, no one has really been able to cash in on my death.

Face it, only I could do my Bill Hicks act. No one else, including a cyborg like Denis Leary, could pull it off. Jesus and his flock are my protectors even after death. When I died, I found out that Jesus didn't care if everybody wore all those crosses around their necks. What a cool dude! I was so wrong about Him! I'm Bill Hicks and I'm dead now! Yes!

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