Greetings and salutations people and peoplettes,
D.B.Tarpley here and today I would like to take a moment and speak to you about the national pastime of dead star-fucking. That’s right, I’m talking to you. Now slowly take a step back and slide your penis out of Marilyn Monroe’s corpse. She was a bonehead; a pretty bonehead but still, a bonehead. No matter how many falsely quoted memes you see on the internet featuring her face telling you something to the effect that it’s O.K. to be fat and that every woman deserves to be treated like a queen, even if she is in fact the cuntiest of all cunts, the fact remains that Marilyn Monroe was a woman, a celebrity, who had it in her grasp, the golden ring on the merry go round, and threw it all away because she was too weak to “cope”. Whether it was through self-imbibed pain-killers or through a pattern of low self-esteem which led to a string of celebrity hook-ups, not the least of which was with two Kennedy brothers that ultimately did her in. (WEAK!) And unfortunately she is not the only one. No there is no shortage of pretty or talented celebrities who met their end through self-destructive behavior or out and out suicide. James Dean, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, John Belushi, Kurt Cobain… the list is literally endless.

Graphics by RimelikBarks

Graphics by RimelikBarks


Giant black and white faces littering the poster sections of Spencer’s novelty shops in malls throughout America. And we look at these damaged individuals and attribute a sense of saint-hood to their actions. Oh those poor-poor souls. How hard they all had it. They had scores and scores of people admiring their every move. I mean, how much love can one person take? It is easy to see why someone would need to take emotion numbing medications to deal with all the joy and happiness that making tons and tons of money can bring you. They had problems? Well boo-fucking hoo. I’ve got problems too. There have been times in my life when I have eaten discarded pizza crusts salvaged from trash cans because I had nothing else. I am a frustrated artist who hates his job of twelve years and who sometimes feels as if all this, everything, is for naught. But still I get up every morning at 5 AM and do it all over again because that’s what you do. That is the price of living this thing called life. That is the price of being a human being, you have to take the joy with the pain. Now I acknowledge that some people have chemical imbalances which sometimes make it hard to cope. But I think the level at which doctors prescribe mood-altering medications in this country is insane. You are not supposed to be happy all the time. Depression? Spend five years in prison before having to get out and start your life all over again from scratch and then get back to me. You’re rich and famous and you’re depressed? Fuck off! Seriously, fuck off. It’s O.K., kill yourself. The world will be a better place for it. Robin Williams? (No one knew his pain.) Bullshit! He was a funny man who brought joy to millions of people. (But he couldn’t bring that joy to himself.) Bloody Hell, have an ice cream Sunday and shut the fuck up. I am not mad at the celebrities. They are human beings. We all have problems and yes sometimes it can be too much. But when you have it all and it’s not enough then you have to hate the player and not the game. I can still look at an artist’s work, completely appreciate it – call it genius even, and separate the art from the person – calling them a bonehead for how they decided to end it all. The only time suicide is acceptable is in the case of terminal illness when your quality of life will be virtually non-existent for the rest of your days. It happens, sure. And when it does, that’s it… it’s over. It is a final solution to a temporary problem which is why the math never adds up. Again, I don’t hate people who do it/ just people who elevate someone who does it to sainthood simply because they are a celebrity. To put it simply Steve Reeves was no superman.

Celebrities are people too.

You should admire their art, their contributions… sure. But when one kills themselves it does not automatically make them a hero, or a better person because they were simply misunderstood. We’re all misunderstood. The world always has been and always will be the fallen tower of Babel. So unless you’re Ernest Hemingway and are just so bad-ass that you want to see what a speeding bullet tastes like, don’t do it. That’s right, I’ll say it again – if you’ve won the game of life and are at the top of your profession don’t kill yourself. Otherwise you are a bonehead. And if you worship someone famous who has done this then you are a bonehead too. Fans gather in groups at a gravesite and memorialize the day their shining star took their own life, whether by immediate action or self-destructive behavior. Hey everybody, let’s suck that cock a little harder… there might be some milk left in it yet. Is your life so depressing that your heroes have to exhibit some terminally tragic flaw? Is that what you need to feel better about yourself? Is that what you call a hero? Someone who can’t hack it? What about those of us who struggle day in and day out and never take our lives? Isn’t that even more heroic. I know, I know, not sexy. That’s such a boring and passionless way to live… you know, not killing ourselves. Where’s the sex in that? Where’s the story, there always has to be a story (DON’T YOU WATCH AMERICAN IDOL?)… They were unloved as a kid (All kids feel unloved from time to time, again that’s a part of the human condition – you grow past that and move on.) It is of course sad when an artist you love takes their own life. You think, Damn, Heath Ledger was really coming into his own… what other art might he have given me which I could enjoy? That is of course what it boils down to, what’s in it for me? What has been taken from me? It is a completely selfish instinct masked in magnanimous compassion. Why, will I no longer be able to enjoy this person’s work anymore? Never mind the real people in their life, or all the experiences they will simply miss out on as human beings… no, it all boils down to you the consumer, and how completely fucked it is that you are now robbed of all that phantom future joy. I think that is where the crux of the problem lies. This is such an ugly feeling, such an all-encompassing yet selfish and totally human way of looking at things that we feel the need to cover it up by elevating, hence making amends to, the person who we are now secretly angry with for depriving us of their monkey show. We miss the monkey show. We want the monkey show. And how dare them take that monkey show from us. The whole thing is a sad, tragic display of human nature and I hate the world for making me write this piece. If someone you like dies by all means mourn… tear your hair, beat your chest, cry even. But bear in mind that if they took their own life they are no hero. They are not special for feeling pain and not being able to deal with it, and they are not someone you should be looking up to. No one’s pain is special. It may have a funky beat and you might be able to dance to it, but facts are facts and if you are fat you are fat. And those are just the way the things they be. Don’t be a bonehead.
Until next time this is D.B.Tarpley saying, don’t worry – be happy, live long and prosper, and leave the pages bloody.

D.B. TARPLEY

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See all books by D.B. Tarpley currently available online
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The son of a poor immigrant philanthropist. D.B. Tarpley got his start writing dialogue for the imaginary friends of imagination deficient kids on the Lower East Side. ‘The Death of Love’ is D.B.Tarpley’s latest book. I am telling everyone and anyone who will listen to take a look at this book!… It’s a page turner… I have NO IDEA where Tarpley is going with this!… Tarpley must be a genius, he surprises in (both) big and little ways”. – five star review. Over the years D.B. has been discovered and recognized by the Lewis N. Clark committee for creative mastery; in addition to this D.B. was recently tossed the Paul Reubens Fellowship for excellence in self awareness. He currently Summers in Manitowoc, Wisconsin; and Winters in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. In addition to writing, D.B. is an internationally acclaimed adult diaper model/ pastry chef. His work has been featured in ‘Pee-n-Poop Wear Quarterly’ as well as ‘Dem Some Fine Damn Muffins Magazine.’ His advice to readers everywhere is “Leave the pages bloody.”
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Graphic by rimelikbarsk
10.10.2015 Nashville

D.B. TARPLEY “Night of the living boneheads”
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