RIP Mitch Hedberg

Fish are always eating other fish. If fish could scream, the ocean would be loud as shit. You would not want to submerge your head, nothing but fish going "AWWWW Fuck! I thought I looked like that rock!"

Mitch Hedberg died the other night, supposedly of a drug overdose in a motel room in Jersey City. If he were still here, his comment on it would perhaps be (delivered in his characteristic stilted delivery) "That is not an ironic place to die. The maid would come in and say 'It looks like someone died in here' and I would pop up and say 'I DID' That is no longer an expression." His jokes, in the style of Steven Wright's quick punch observations laced with dope humor have been on the surface of my consciousness for the last year, when a friend turned me onto him. He is the true friend-of-everyman comic, not like a Paul Riser or Jeff Foxworthy, not fake real-life everyman, but that lovable loser you can't shake from your cadre, because they are still fucking funny, even though they called you from the casino bar asking you to cover their shift tomorrow.

I would like to go fishing and catch a fishstick. That would be convenient. I could easily get a job with Mrs Paul's. Just put me in a boat with some empty boxes, and I will return them to the freezer section of your neighborhood grocery store.

His style was anything but polished. It felt like he could mess that joke up any minute, which only served to make him funnier. His vulnerability was as real as his humor, with the wait-dig-this bong hit explosions of genius blossoming in the soil of apartment living and too much PlayStation. Its a shame his habits had to get the best of him, like they will with all of us in one way or another. He was a funny guy, and we need more funny guys in the world. If you are in the position to do so, pour a little bongwater on the ground before your next hit.

I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask them where they're goin' and hook up with them later.