He died.
I'm reluctant to even remark on Mr. Limbaugh, now dead, at long last dead, thankfully dead. Acknowledging his death and our afterlife seems a tribute, of sorts, to his malign influence on the nation, its cheapened culture and Gingrichian decay.
He'll live on in nightmarish memory as that wicked airhead of the airwaves, the AM re-innovator of Father Coughlin's gutter politics — times three, a sadistic "entertainer" aside the Marquis, a cryptofascistic spawn of Joseph Goebbels, a rouser of the lowest rabble, a heaver of hate. In short, a real dick.
Few of us mind a mischievous Beelzebub who possesses at least some redeeming qualities. Limbaugh had none.
He was a cruel, bigoted, ignorant, misogynistic, cruel, homophobic, mendacious, scofflawing, cruel, xenophobic, science-denying, egotistical, cruel, fascist-loving blackguard and insufferable stain on America who inspired a vast underworld of likeminded, blathering on-air demons.
And now he is dead.
As an amateur coroner I must aver,
I thoroughly examined him.
And he's not only merely dead,
he's really most sincerely dead.
Then this is a day of Independence,
For all the Moderates and their descendants,
If any.
Yes, let the joyous news be spread,
The wicked Old Wanker at last is dead!
A veritable armée of sociopsychologists, political commentators and quick-gun culture pundits will soon unveil grand narratives of just how this $85-million-a-year fraud was able to actuate the animal instincts of otherwise normal traveling salesmen, hardhats and housewives. But he needs no analysis. Rush Limbaugh was simply a carnival barker with a windbag's gift for gab; his, of the venomous kind, which too often attracts curious auditors perhaps yearning to free their inner Dorian Gray.
Now the old wanker is dead. But he'll live on as AM talk radio also dies, replaced by would-be Limbaughs of internet and satellite — all of whom can thank Rush for their 15 minutes of slime.