On good days, we called Richard Randall a rabble-rousing, bible-thumping, finger-blasting-followed-by-finger-banging, beverage-tax-dodging, flag-waving, forked-tongue-shouting, spell-casting, fly-fishing, beer-guzzling, insect-eating, gossip-spreading, queer-bashing, home-rolled-cigarette-smoking, CB-using, annual-cosplaying, line-standing, mother-fucking, fez-wearing, shit-grinning, barely-anger-managing, top-spinning, Oriental-hating victim of a failing American moral system.

On bad days, like today, we called him an over-sedated, seatbelt-wearing, questionably-passionate, armchair-weather-forecasting, hypocrisy-mumbling, liter-drooling, eight-day-in-a-row-tie-dye-shirt-wearing, Megyn-Kelly-stalking, Ritz-cracker® abhorring, anti-arson advocating opioid addict. All this defined a very complex lifestyle. He represented the modern middle-aged Caucasian man. He was 23 years old.

Rick Randall’s Senior Yearbook picture. “Gym was cool, cooler when we ditched. Have a good summer. College.”

#TechnicallyJamesBrownDiedWhenHeWasMiddleAged73