[note from the editors: Normally we wouldn’t publish something about the non-living, but because of the proximity of our last post to the death of Mr. Jackson we thought the following would be worth sharing. Keep in mind that it is simply a draft, created a few weeks ago by one the staff who was planning on finishing it up this week. If you know any of us personally you might want to think twice if we offer to buy you a beer.]
We here are deadman/party are all late-night and hangover television watchers and are simply fascinated by what shining beacon Billy Mays is. His over-excited holler delivery is far superior to that of his close second in the arena of television pitch-men, that vaguely colonial british accent guy. It is a fond, foggy memory we have of a bearded hulk of a man selling us washing powder mixed with oxygen. From there he has branched out into the arena of hanging things, ladders that one would use to hang such things and magical kitchen implements that will make tiny burgers meant to travel through the intestinal tract in a flash.
Also, we assume that his penis bears more than a passing resemblance to a mink and, like Charles Bronson’s flesh hammer, has a knuckle.