She’s Dead. Move On.
August 31, 2007
I am not a fan of royalty, especially the House of Windsor. I simply do not understand what the fan fare over a leggy blonde, who chose to slum with the social pariahs of the 80s. She gave special attention to AIDs patients before they were the cause celeb. Commendable. That does not make her a saint–it makes her progressive. She used her position of power to draw attention to important social issues. For that, she should be remembered kindly–but this outpouring of attention and faux-grief is a bigger waste of time, money and effort than all of my blog posts combined.
She had wealth, power and prestige and she used it to help people. It was her moral obligation to use her power to help the needy. If she did not find causes to support, she’d be a parasite–feeding off the people of the UK while giving them nothing in return. In retrospect she did her goddamn job. She gets a heap of praise for doing what she should do– I call bullshit. She is getting an inordinate amount of attention due to her position as a princesses–a meaningless title denoting an outdated system of governance.
She did good work and her death was a tragic accident. Time to fucking move on. The only people who should still be in mourning are her kids, because they lost their mother. The rest of us should find someone else who needs our support and work with them–not fawn over a Lady Di.
So Diana, I send you, and all your fans, The Finger. Originally, it was from my vacation in Ireland. In the spirit of the every washed up, two-bithack that rededicated a work of art to you, I have since repurposed this ireland picture just for you, and all the pathetic cobags that still mourn you 10 years gone.
Cheers!


Glad I could contribute in some small way, by making sure the Finger In Ireland was recorded for posterity… And this blog.:)
Shes dead Jim.
I can’t help but be reminded of Large Marge. Who the bloody hell celebrates a Death Anniversary anyways?
I can just see it now, as I’m hitching across the great freeways of America, ala Kerouac, I’ll get picked up by some old woman in a flannel shirt telling me about paparazzi and to tell everyone Queen D, sent me.
Wait… no I wont, Kerouac was a hack.