The killer
There are a lot of ways to go. But this might be the strangest. Nicola Paginton, a 30-year-old nanny from England died of heart arrhythmia brought on by her self-induced state of sexual arousal.
Yep Ron Jeremy and a vibrating wand conspired to kill her.
Granted, there are suckier ways to kick the bucket. But to be found by the coroner with your g-string down to your ankles and an ElectroDix still trying to mount you, that’s a pretty crappy way to say goodbye to the world.
And the suckiest part of it all? The movie was a one-day rental. And we’re pretty sure she’s not going to get it back in time.
Sucks to have late fees.
Attention handymen of New Zealand: Put down the nail gun. Drop the power painter. Move away from the instruction manual on how to rewire your house.
If you’re a TV star, a musical icon, a movie actor or, hell, an extra in the community theater version of Guys and Dolls, run for cover. Because the Grim Reaper is looking for you. Or so it seems. This week, he’s taken swipes at all levels of fame. Already he voted Ed McMahon, Farrah and the King of Pop and Pedophilia off the island.
Love him or hate him, you can’t deny the impact Michael Jackson had on popular music. His iconic moonwalk. His trademark sequined glove. And the songs. “Billy Jean.” “Wanna Be Starting Somethin’.” “Beat It.” “Bad.” “Black or White.” The list is as long as the line for the ferris wheel at the Neverland Ranch. Michael Jackson was the Elvis of the ’80s. The Beatles of the next generation. And ya know, despite all the weird wacky shit he pulled for the last decade and a half, and the fact that he robbed us of thousands of hours of our TV time with his bizarre interviews, his inexplicable antics and his seemingly endless trials, I’m gonna miss him.
Life at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue has taken a heavy toll on all members of the Bush family over the last eight years—most notably on their cat 
