A publicist for George Carlin says the legendary comedian has died of heart failure at a hospital in Santa Monica, Calif.
Jeff Abraham says Carlin went into St. John’s Health Center on Sunday afternoon, complaining of chest pain. Carlin died at 5:55 p.m. PDT. He was 71. (Story continues here).
I’m sitting here, about to get ready for work, and I simply cannot move. I am in shock. And I don’t think I’ve been anywhere near this shaken about the death of a celebrity since the loss of Dr. LaVey. Probably because Carlin wasn’t merely a “celebrity.” His fame wasn’t predicated upon Hollywood hype or having a rich daddy or simple luck. His comedic style wasn’t reliant upon hack routines or catchy pop phrases, and he certainly never lowered himself to the level of idiots like Dane Cook or Carlos Mencia. He was an original with an undeniably Luciferian edge. And he played his adversarial role with razor sharpness.
Carlin may or may not have been a de facto Satanist, but his appeal in that regard is indisputable (and would explain, in my case, why the subject of Carlin has been covered in both Not Like Most and my first book). By attacking herd conformity, pretentiousness, and stupidity — and let’s not forget his relentless and unapologetic assault on the God religions themselves — he became the consummate accuser. And he didn’t hide his horns for anybody.
I discovered Carlin in the mid-1980s through his “Carlin At Carnegie” performance I’d rented at the local video store. I was probably about 16 at the time and it was the perfect age to become acquainted with Carlin. Even 24 years later, I can still recite many of the routines at the drop of a hat. It’s safe to say that my VHS copy of this show has been played so many times since that its wear is beyond visible.
Since then, he’d only gotten better with age. In fact, I’m going to leave you with a shining example of that — from someone whose humor was truly forged in Hell. Hail George!
Oh, and shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, and tits as well.