Today is the sort of day that people like Pat O’Brien and Mary Hart (going on the assumption that she is not entirely machine just yet) live for: Anna Nicole Smith is dead. As of right now, various news outlets are stretching what little detail is available to the press by discussing CPR and blood clots with Sanjay Gupta in hopes that a police press conference breaks out with the chocolatey goodness of foul play.
I’m putting my money on the theory that Anna Nicole Smith’s creepy, omnipresent “attorney” Howard K. Stern is somehow responsible for both her death and her son’s death last fall. Is it me or does this guy remind you of Senator Palpatine, controlling the absurdist puppet show while that oil fortune gets bounced around and people die of mysterious circumstances? He silently lurks in the shadows, twisting his hypothetical moustache, “soon I will have a new apprentice!”

At the end of the day, Anna Nicole’s death is tragic, even though it was prophesied by Nostradamus, sensed by dogs and shown on the jumbotron during last week’s Super Bowl. In short, you wake up one day and it’s Thursday. As the world grieves, I have no doubt that we will see many programs spanning basic cable celebrating the culmination of her life and career.

Which is…?

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