AC Come, AC Go ...

I’ve always found the circumstances surrounding the death of Bon Scott a little curious. I find it hard to believe that someone can actually drown in their own vomit. My skepticism is based, in part, on the sheer number of cases I’m personally familiar with in which an extremely inebriated person woke up just fine, albeit usually sporting a dandy headache. I know that the absence of cases in my personal circle of acquaintances doesn’t preclude it actually happening to someone somewhere, but still, if it really does happen, odds are that I’d have known at least one victim.

It was nice, then, to receive an email finally providing a logical explanation. A friend forwarded on one of those “Miss So-And-So said something bad about jeebus and OMG SHE CAUGHT THE BLACK PLAGUE AND GOT BIT BY A BROWN RECKLESS SPIDER AND DRANK SPOILED MILK AND DIED 24 HOURS LATER!!11!!1ELEVENTY!!!1” messages. You know the ones – a list of famous people who dissed the G-man and subsequently came to an early death (my friend wasn’t implying that there is any truth to the alleged causal relationship of diss:death; she was forwarding it as an example of the intelligence level of her coworkers). Included in the list was the aforementioned Bon Scott:

Bon Scott (Singer)

The ex-vocalist of the AC/DC. On one of his 1979 songs he sang:

'Don't stop me; I'm going down all the way, down the highway to hell'.

On the 19th of February 1980, Bon Scott was found dead, he had been choked by his own vomit.

Well, of course! Choked by his own vomit! I can picture it so clearly – him lying unconscious on the carpet, still clenching the bottle of Jack Daniels, his hair drenched from lying in the pool of his own regurgitation … but still alive. As we all know, however, shag carpet acts as a battery for static electricity. I suspect that Mr. Scott twitched a bit in his sleep, thereby producing a spark that, not unlike the random lightning strike billions of years ago that brought life to the primordial ooze, brought life to the vomital ooze in which he lay.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the foul soup must have begun to ripple, then splash, as it brought itself together, first extending upward from the carpet, forming itself into a trunk-like column, then extending two crude appendages, grotesque arms which then became more defined, eventually sprouting hideous fingers, freakish digits that found their way to the throat of Satan’s own vocalist, fingers that squeezed, tighter and tighter, until finally, his lungs burning for air, the blasphemous Bon Scott must have woken to realize that yea, as ye sow, so shall ye reap, just as his black demon heart beat its last.

The God of our fathers is a vengeful god.

So take heart, all you drunken lushes ... drink, drink, and then drink some more, and concern yourselves not with such a fate ... but for the love of God, put on an Amy Grant CD first.