Graveyard Grins & Comedy's Final Price
Subtitle: Some jokes aren’t made to comfort. They’re made to outlive the silence.
There’s a difference between laughing with something… and laughing at its funeral.
Some of us don’t tell jokes to heal. We tell them because the system's already six feet under— and we're just here with a smirk, watching it rot.
This isn’t comedy for claps. It’s satire as autopsy. We’re not the audience. We’re the eulogists with blood on our pen and dust on our boots.
🎭💀 Comedy's Real Glitch Walkers: Let’s not forget the legends who laughed too loud—and paid for it:
George Carlin: Mocked God, government, and grammar in one breath. Died of heart failure, but not before dismantling America's moral panic—one routine at a time.
Richard Pryor: Set himself on fire, lived to joke about it, and turned trauma into televised truth. Died after years of battling MS, but not before teaching the world that pain can be funny—if you're brave enough to say it out loud.
Lenny Bruce: Jailed for obscenity. Blacklisted for honesty. Died alone in a bathroom. His apology from New York came decades too late.
Joan Rivers: Made death, cancer, and her husband’s suicide into stand-up material. She didn’t flinch, and neither did her mic. Died from surgical complications—but her punchlines still stab.
Patrice O’Neal: Too real for TV. Too sharp for fake fans. Died of a stroke, but left behind a legacy of raw, unfiltered warfare through wit.
Bill Hicks: Burned through consumerism, war propaganda, and blind patriotism before cancer took him at 32. The man left teeth marks on the timeline.
These weren’t just comedians. They were executioners in disguise. Their weapon? Laughter. Their crime? Refusing to be silent.
So when I laugh? I’m not doing it to cope. I’m laughing because the body’s already cold. Because history’s already embarrassed itself. And because sometimes, the best revenge is mocking the mess on its way out.
This isn’t cruelty. It’s clarity.
🎭💀 Final Word: Don’t flinch when I laugh. Don’t ask me to cry for a system that already dug its grave. I didn’t bring flowers.
I brought punchlines.
🔥 Book of Boris — Chapter XLV: Graveyard Grins Verse 1: I don’t laugh to lighten the mood. I laugh because the casket’s already closed— and the lies died first.
Verse 2: This isn’t comedy. This is correction with a smile, delivered after the system tripped on its own arrogance and fell headfirst into the pit.
Verse 3: So when I laugh at history, understand: I’m not healing. I’m marking the grave.
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