Freddie's Dead
Happy Anni-hearse-ary™ to the hairiest-chested man in the history of music: Buck-toothed, stretch-panted singer/strutter nonpareil Farrokh “Freddie” Bulsara. In years prior, I would've wagered a goodly sum that Bulsara was a Brit, having risen to international fame as the voice of the quintessential English band of the 70’s and 80’s — Queen® — but I've since learned in my Twitternet™ patrolling capacity that Freddie was, in fact, born in bloody Zanzibar, which is one of those exotic-sounding places like Madagascar or Xanadu that end up us as amusement ride monikers, Disney movies or song titles by Olivia Newton Johns. (No relation to yours truly Dooley Johns.) Zanzibar also lays claim to being an “archipelago,” whatever that means. (Oh crikey, I know what it means, it’s a fancy way of saying, “island nation,” but then, so is the United Kingdom and you don’t see us touting it on our webpage.) Bulsara was raised in the Persi or Parsi — or Parsley, for all I know — faith, one of those eastern religions where the women solder teal gemstones to their foreheads and the men smoke hookahs and play the bloody sitar on the floor with their legs crossed. Now, no offense intended, but if you were aspiring to be a world famous rock star, you would think that being born in Zanzibar of the Parsi faith would be two bloody strikes against you — and you would be right, Chumley, as only a move to England in his teens saved Freddie from strikes three and four, and sent him on the pathway to becoming a proper rock-and-roller, which is to say: He went to art school, let his hair grow, infuriated mum and dad, changed his name to Mercury — Molten Lava, was taken, haha — shagged galfriend number one, shagged boyfriends number one and two, joined a number of lukewarm bands with names like The Toy Poodles and The Island Spices, met up with afro-haired guitar wizard Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor, returned to galfriend number one, who helped fashion his open-chested stage attire, as well as some early band logos, even though Freddie was the one with the graphic design chops, which led to a horrible dust-up and Freddie moving out and back into the arms of boyfriend number two, three of four, growing his trademark, wiry dark-chocolate moustachio, slapping on the shiny leather and such. ‘Twas all for the best, of course, as for years, Freddie and his mates in Queen laid waste the notion that the Beatle Brothers® would forever speak for England and thank the bloody Parsi Gods for that! Alas, he fell ill and would suffer near the end of his too brief tenure on terra firma and 'tis with sadness and fondness that we acknowledge and celebrate the deathday™ — November 27, 1991 — of the Rhapsodic Bohemiam himself, the late, great Freddie Mercury. He was the champion, my friends, and he kept on fighting 'til the bloody end.
