A Stolen Suicide Note Is Better Than None

Robin Williams spent a career stealing bits, taking them higher, and paying those comics he stole from in the 1st place as a form of last minute compensation to assuage their frowning souls for making their material shine way brighter than they ever did, regardless if they killed at the Comedy Store after Louie Anderson or not. So, is it too much to expect Robin Williams, as self-centered as comedians are, to leave his daughter a suicide note to explain why her love wasn’t enough to keep him hanging on?  Not even Billy Crystal could offer me comic relief in the end, even after sampling some new racy material on me about how Billy loves black guys because they don’t discriminate against pussy, unless they get cold feet at the last minute and have to go down on Whoopie under her table spot at the View, even he if just lost a bet to Suge Knight before getting released from the can, that sort of thing.

Losing your memory is super scary but for man of his high intelligence and developed emotional empathy for being born an only child, left to play army figures by himself, who also played Peter fucking Pan for a living for 20 Million bucks. So couldn’t have Robin willed a way to summon some old time Improv magic after making the decision to kill himself and then say out loud to himself, “Yes, killing myself is the only way out of this crippling despair but 1st  remember to love your daughter enough to write her a fucking suicide note, stolen from a Kurt Cobain lyric on Nirvana Unplugged or not.  Make her a Youtube video dressing up like Mrs. Doubtfire singing Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for Sunbeam, anything.”

I know, towards the end, Robin Williams struggled to remember his lines as Teddy Roosevelt on the set of Night At The Museum such as, “Why doesn’t anybody charge DMX of cultural appropriation for thugging up the rough rider brand for all it was worth.”  I get it, for an extended period of time, Robin Williams was used to being the funniest man alive, who never suffered from speechless, dull man disease.  I just feel for bad for his daughter Zelda, who has to take a break from social media on the anniversary of her father’s suicide every year, because she’s emotionally drained from all the effusive, fan mail she receives in her dead dad’s honor, describing all the wonderful memories her dead dad, provided millions of strangers, as she strains to conjure up many loving memories left without her heart punctured heart, thinking, “I’m glad my dad made your life so much happier, than your own dad could. But here’s a concept, ease up on sucking off the spirit of my dead dad during the anniversary of his death every year, knowing Patch Adams would’ve provided me with some modicum of closure, if he didn’t make it all about him again and left me a suicide note that said, 13 reasons, I don’t want to leave this world yet, regardless if I’m not the shining comedy star I used to be or not,  Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda, Zelda.

Michael Kornbluth

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