We'd been formulating a theory after Ed McMahon, Farrah and Michael, but the Billy Mays out-of-nowhere death sealed it for us.
The celebrity rapture is upon us. God is taking his chosen people, celebrities, home to their eternal VIP club in the sky. (And don't give us the old Jews-as-chosen-people story -- that is so Web 1.0.)
Soon the limos will be parked, the late-night shows quiet, the crime dramas out of production for good, the concert stages empty. And all of the rest of us, the little people who supported them through the hard times, will be left to deal with all that bad stuff coming our way. (We'll admit here that we're a few weeks behind on our Bible study and haven't gotten our heads wrapped around the whole Revelations thing -- will there be frogs again? Or hot -- should we stock up on linen shirts?)
So prepare for a celeb-less world, where the supermarket tabloids feature housewives from Akron and the only thing on TV will be reality shows, without even one reality star. Woe be to us.
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