I’m a bit busy mourning my uncle, my mother-in-law and my friend, all dead in the last 18 months, to worry about a billionaire who spent his life stamping out a series of shiny money-toilets that credulous boobs use as currency and mistake for creativity.
My uncle painted pictures that were physical devotions of his love and faith. My mother-in-law gave birth to and raised my wife. My friend was a fireman who saved people’s lives. But sure, make maudlin electronic gestures for a man you never knew, swell the river of crocodile tears coursing through Twitter and G+ and Facebook until it’s broad enough for Sobek to slither out of its depths and sun himself on its banks.
Any worth the billionaire had resided in places that not a single one of you have ever seen. His wife saw those places and his kids, his parents and his real friends. But not you. You should go do something that matters. Leave off the shameless worrying of a stranger’s corpse. Let people who meant something to the man mourn him.
I plan to mourn my uncle. And my mother-in-law. And my friend.
