The Death of David Carradine : NOT the Way of the Grasshopper

What would Master Po say? I’d like to know, because I’m a little speechless about this hanging incident. Was there foul play? The Bangkok police say there was no evidence of assault, but the “evidence” was obtained through a preliminary investigation. Carradine was shooting the film “Stretch” on location when he failed to appear for a meal with the cast and crew. Officer Teerapop Luanseng, investigating the death, said they went to his suite at the luxury Swissotel Nai Lert Park Hotel. “I can confirm that we found his body, naked, hanging in the closet,” said Teerapop.

This is NOT the way of the Grasshopper!

David Carradine was 72 years old—and looking pretty good for his years, I mean, the man got puntang. So then why… WHY, when he was doing what he loved, had the world as his oyster; had friends, fans and loved ones, did something prompt him —something so strong and persuading— to strip naked, wrap a curtain cord around his neck and hang himself in the closet? (Reports now indicate it was a shoe string). But still; so odd, so disturbing, so unlike Kwai Chang Caine.

The latest reports are indicating the cause of death was autoerotic asphyxiation, yet Chuck Binder, Carradine’s manager, said he was found “with his hands tied behind his back”. This contradicts a newspaper report from Thai Rath which includes a photo of the actor with his hands tied behind his back.
But check out the photo: looks like the body of a female hooker to me. What gives? I don’t buy it. Rumors are circulating that Carradine was in the process of uncovering some Kung Fu underground, a claim stated by his attorney on Larry King Live, but this sounds to me more like a family’s attempt to create controversy and uncertainty around an otherwise unsavory fact: Carradine was kinky, and whoops—he fucked up. Two of his ex-wives have stated that he enjoyed a little S & M now and again, including bondage, but the jury is still out as to what the The Grasshopper’s real fate was. What do YOU think?

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Banana Leaf Tamales: A Letter to the Chef

Dear Chef,

I tried very hard to control myself, managing only to leave the house before devouring all but the last of those delicious, banana leaf tamales, which only got better as they sat in the fridge overnight, longing to be consumed. I even tried to eat the leaves themselves, as they were calling to me, or perhaps it was the hungry gnome who lives in my stomach (he also likes, and requires, tequila). Please tell me what corn paste, chicken/chili foodstuffs you need to create more and I will buy them immediately. I know you are busy this weekend, but sometime soon thereafter—and before I wrap a towel around my head and explosives to my chest, demanding tamales in retribution for… uh… for a lack of tamales, that is—could we make more? And when I say could I mean, really, God damn it, we need more fucking tamales! —sorry, that was the gnome, not me. ANY hoo, back to the tamales; would it be possible to make a few more, when convenient; and by more I mean many, and by convenient I mean, as in ASAP? I could be an assistant of some kind, in a bartender-like capacity perhaps, or at least a dishwasher thereafter. We could videotape the event and post it on uTube, and then, when you’re famous like Martha Stewart (minus the whole tax-evasion/sent-to-jail “thing”) I could receive a stipend for my services, in the form of seven tamales a day, for example. Why seven? I don’t know, seven came to mind… but then again, how about nine? Alright, great, it’s settled: nine tamales in exchange for a uTube video of you making tamales,—and of me then eating the tamales, I think that would be fabulous. I’m pretty sure there’s a Top Chef on the horizon here… so then, what else… there was something else… did I mention the tamales?

:: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::

Bankers Eat Babies

It was a shock—at first—to see James L. Dimon, CEO and Chairman of JP Morgan Chase, feasting on the flesh of a new born baby girl, but after getting a small loan from Chase last month, the cannibalism seemed mild in comparison. Dimon, known for ass-raping small boys during JP Morgan’s “Fuck the Little Guy Festival” in Bangkok, Thailand, has been a strong proponent of theft since he was a youth, when his Greek grandfather taught him how to steal from the Turks in 1962. Although many bankers deny the eating of babies at such reclusive events as the semi-annual, “Raping of the Citizens” at Bohemian Grove in Guernville, California, some admit to the practice without hesitation.

JP Morgan Chase stock has fallen in recent times, but Dimon (pronounced Demon) recently assured his shareholders that profits would increase by intensifying time-honored traditions such as the increasing of fees, initiating arbitrary late fees, charging interest on the fees after the fact, falsifying records, a sudden changing of terms and the indiscriminate increasing of APRs. At a recent press gathering, JP Morgan Chase big shot Austin A. Adams added, “And we will not stop eating babies!” Reporters seemed unsure what relevance the comment had on the banking industry. One reporter asked Dimon if William B. Harrison was really worth 7 billion dollars, to which Dimon replied, “You’ve never eaten a baby, have you?”

If any of this seems obtuse and confusing, you need only read through the terms (but don’t bother) it’s much easier to eat a baby. And maybe that’s the point. After all, banking—like larceny—can’t be easy. And after all the legalese, a fresh newborn might just calm the nerves, who knows, but that’s Satan’s philosophy (And Satan heads the Illuminati, which all bankers must join before being assigned to their baby-eating, ass-fucking positions).
I’m trying to understand how the minds of these strange and foreign entities work. As you may have already suspected, bankers are not, in fact, human. But the question remains: what planet are they from, and how can we get rid of them? :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: :: ::