Sometimes you went incognito in shades, quite obviously stoned out of your gourd.
Dear Mr. King:
You were many things to us as we grew up: a short rotund rag doll with a pleasing disposition, a cartoon character with an unbelievably large crown, and, eventually, a pervy looking guy only one step ahead of the men in the little white coats, with a smile on your face that could crack china (but not China).
Here, you tried to seduce us.
It was the last incarnation that has stuck with us, though. Lurking in our dreams like a tragic figure from Shakespeare, getting caught in the gray folds of our brains. Sometimes, you road in on a motorcycle, other times you participated in normal activities with normal people, though your robes often got in the way, and your smile looked like it was frozen with liquid nitrogen.
Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of corporate jets sing thee to thy rest! Goodbye, inspirer of burger flippers and squishers everywhere! See you later, corporate mascot, par excellence.
Actually, I’m sure we will be seeing you later, when the company decides to resuscitate you a few months hence. Please come back with a less crazed-looking mask.
Doing the victory dance, but it wasn’t victory against Death.
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