Ray Bradbury Must Die (Dead Pool Update)

Of course I don't wish him ill will. The Dead Pool is just like a lottery where we are all waiting to see which number stops breathing gets pulled first.

 

Explain how the dead pool works. I'm going to pass this on to the guy who does our college football pool and I want to be able to explain it.
I like the idea. And fingers crossed for you on Bradbury croaking.

 

It is pretty simple. Everybody throws 10 bucks into a pot and draws a name from among a list of celebrities who are 80 years or older. First person to have their celebrity pass away wins.

 

Of course you know will be the chief suspect if his death appears untoward. I suggest you spend your last days doting on Mr. Bradbury and protecting him from harm.

 

What if my brother wins because an ex-first lady dies?

And of course, the last pool ended when Gerald Ford passed but as near as I can tell, nobody ever checked into what the winner of the pool was doing when President Ford passed.

 

Here is an update. . .

The death of Howard Hunt reset the dead pool so as far as I'm concerned, long lvie Ray Bradbury.

We will pick new names in another week or so.

 

An over-80 pool? Talk about low-hanging fruit. Do an under-40 pool.

 

The one I'm in has a good scoring system -- you pick 10 people you think will join the choir invisible within the next year. For each one that passes you get 100 points - minus their age. That way you get more credit for someone like Courtney Love than you would for Lady Bird Johnson.

 

I e-mailed Ray Bradbury about this thread.

"Something wicked this way comes,” I typed. "Quicker than the eye.”

It's true, Bradbury moves more slowly at 86; many days passed before his answer's homecoming.

My own heart almost stopped at the e-mail's subject line: "Death is a lonely business.”

I was relieve to find a videolink inside.

“Bradbury speaks,” I muttered, clicking away.

A heavily tattooed attendant adjusted Bradbury’s wheelchair in front of the camera. Ray sighed and sipped a glass of dandelion wine and waved the illustrated man away.

“It’s true, I’m not exactly feeling like the cat’s pajamas,” he intoned. “Sometimes I look out the window and see green shadows, a white whale, and feel like I’m driving blind. I think, ‘Farewell, summer! We’re moving into October country and its graveyard for lunatics.’ But then I hear the sound of thunder, always a medicine for melancholy, and realize, I am returned from the dust. I have one more for the road.”

A smile, another sip of wine.

“Let’s all kill Constance,” he said, eyes lively behind the thick lenses of his glasses, “She’s a witch. Light the fire and let me know when it reaches Fahrenheit 451.”


http://www.raybradbury.com