Or rather, plenty of people died on that day, but none that we know. This just goes to show somehow that one doesn't have to be dead for a Resurrection to occur, and that it doesn't take three days to Get it Done.

Oscar Wilde was dead on that Day, or so they were told, but there's more to this World than meets the Eye, and Oscar, Saint of stable-boy-Buggery and Parlour Witticisms, was saying, "I must admit it's a relief to be asked to discuss one's life over here, in preference to one's life when on Earth, because in any case my life on Earth is pretty well known among the gossip-mongers! If I were to say to you that my life here is not unlike my life on Earth, you'd probably be very horrified! But it happens to be perfectly true, and I've no regrets about it whatsoever . . . My reputation does not worry me, but it seems to worry a hell of a lot of people on your side! More money has been made out of my reputation since my death, than ever I was able to make out of my plays, which goes to say that sin is very successful!"

And people were laughing their asses off, remembering that prior to his Martyrdom in 1895, he was Said to have Said "The best way to deal with Temptation is to Yield to eet!" and of this, there could be Little Disagreement as to its Truth, at least insofar as They were concerned, Then as Now, for the Victorian Era wasn't all that long ago, and while a fellow like, say, Rasputin seems a Million Worlds away because he lived in Russia and never got filmed and looked real Medieval and all that, and because you see his Buddy the Tsar walking around in those eerie newsreels looking like a low-budget Chaplin, but in a Way people like Oscar don't seem so far Away, now do they?

This doesn't come from Richard Ellmann's Pulitzer-winning Bio. Or from Chris Snodgrass's shitty Critical Study, just another Limp-Dicked attempt by Tenured Academics to scavenge a few more Meals of the putrefying Corpses of people far Greater than Themselves, but it's pretty much Common Knowledge that just like people wonder if they're fucking someone with 'Putin's DNA, have they fucked somebody that fucked Oscar, and, therefore, fucked Oscar by Proxy? Well, let's see. Oscar died in France in 1900. So if he fucked an 18-Year-Old butt-hustler a few months before he Popped Off This Plane, (which chances are he did), then if that dude was 68 and fucking somebody it'd be 1950, and if his boy was 15, and was At the Time of This Writing 67, well, sure thing, folks! But the nights are getting shorter so you'd better start Cruising those European Nursing Homes for your chance at your Piece of the Action. Time to Start Packing! Pun Intended.

Hey, it happens, though, about these people and their Comebacks. Sure, everybody knows about Houdini, how he and his Woman wanted to do it and never did, but if Jesus can talk to his Disciples and get pissed 'cause they think he's Dead, well, we all can! Jung wrote a Book about it and Yeats and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, that "Hound of the Baskervilles" dude, was into it, and Lady Chatterley's Lover used to chat about it, and it's really all put forth in the work of Eugene Slutsky, who pointed out exactly twenty years after Oscar died that in the famous "Slutsky Theorem" that if a statistic converges almost surely or in probability to some constant, then any continuous function of that statistic also converges in the same manner to some function of that constant." See? Get it? Here's your proof. Right there in Front of you, Goldfinger.

I'll bet you're wondering what all this has to do with Gerald McRaney, that Gaywad who played Rick on that Buzzed-out early 80s TV program Simon & Simon that comes on Cable at 4 am when everybody's Stoned and Bored. Well, you're just gonna have to keep wondering, too. Pleased to met you! Hope you've guessed my Name.

But Back to Oscar. See, Jack London was in this Bar in Oakland fucked up on John Barleycorn and saying, I can only repeat myself. There is no death. Life is spirit, and spirit cannot die. Only the flesh dies and passes, ever a-crawl with the chemic ferment that informs it, ever plastic, ever crystallizing, only to melt into the flux and to crystallize into fresh and diverse forms that are ephemeral and that melt back into the flux. Spirit alone endures and continues to build upon itself through successive and endless incarnations as it works upward toward the light. What shall I be when I live again? I wonder. I wonder . . . And Jack, who died in 1913, after Oscar but before 'Putin, was quoting from a book about Reincarnation he wrote called The Star Rover, which nobody's ever Read, but it's Free on the Internet, which God created so we could buy books about Oscar on amazon.com in which we learn that at the Instant of his Death, filled with Pus as it was from Syphilis and his lengthy rare Ear Infection (about which his own Daddy, a Doctor, had once written a book, OHHHHH, Karma! OHHHHH yeah, I Am the Walrus!) his body exploded, and pus ran from every Aperture, EVERY ONE!

— I'll bet you on the Black Market there's a considerable Demand for a Vial of his Pus, which London Fags can use to lube each other up and Fuck Oscar, and in fact it was this Final Incident that lead to the composition of a Screenplay, Oscar's Pus, which shows him dying & exploding for 2 hours and 17 minutes, with intrusive flashbacks every few seconds of him giving it up the Toot to a London stable-boy, and it's in fact a lot like this other movie, Iris, about the great English novelist Iris Murdoch, which shows her dying of that disease Reagan has interspersed with Flashback Snaps of Kate Winslet's Beaver (she plays the Young Iris), but the one on Wilde, well, it's actually a Masterpiece that anticipates the next time this Earth comes 'round again and there's Oscar, on his Deathbed, and it all happens the exact same way but nobody's there prescient enough to draw a Vial of his Pus, and OH! How little do we learn from our Mistakes. Which is why everybody keeps ending up in Bad Relationships with their Dead Parents who appear to them in the Vessels of 22-Year-Old college Juniors who look good and want to Fuck. For Free.

Mistakes are always on the House, Mr. Bungle.