“Don’t speak ill of the dead” is a maxim that’s universally recognized as a basic rule of conduct. Even when a tyrant or dictator dies, we’re expected to maintain a modicum of decorum and refrain from dancing on the dearly departed’s grave.
Well, I call bullshit on that tired old proverb, that ain’t how we roll in the 21st century. When Trump bites the bullet, I’m going to dance the Macarena on his grave.
I’m glad to see that many in the media share my mindset, when the quintessential shock jock Rush Limbaugh finally succumbed to terminal cancer the Huffington Post’s headline screamed: “BIGOT, MISOGYNIST, HOMOPHOBE, CRANK: RUSH LIMBAUGH DEAD.” Twitter was even less restrained, they metaphorically danced and pissed on his grave.
It is a mortal sin to mourn the passing of a millionaire who reeked of white privilege and who was contemptuous of religious and racial minorities, and the poor and disenfranchised. I don’t care what deity you worship, I’m sure He will give you a dispensation to mark the death of Limbaugh by criticizing the vile creature and everything he represented.
For decades Limbaugh viciously mocked gay AIDS victims, feminists, immigrants and just about everyone else who wasn’t a white Christian conservative. He dedicated the last days of his life undermining democracy by ardently promoting the false conspiracy theory that Joe Biden stole the 2020 election from Donald Trump.
As a poor progressive Hispanic, I represent the person that Limbaugh attacked mercilessly for decades, and upon his death all I can say is: Fuck you Limbaugh, I hope you rot in hell.
