"We live in a world where John Lennon was murdered but Barry Manilow continuesto put out fucking albums…If you're going to kill somebody, have some fucking taste."
-Bill Hicks

My father was twenty-five, blind (only temporarily, though no one knew that then), and keeping with the present fashion, he had a diseased, bloody stump where his left leg used to be. Too patriotic to draft-dodge, my dad paid severely for his ill placed loyalties. It was 1967. The Vietnam War was barely beginning to be lost.

Enter Bob Hope—entertainer emeritus of America's military—to the rescue! Packing a government-issue wit and wisdom, Hope arrived to complete his perennial mission: cheer up the troops and help them forget the raping and murdering they frigidly perpetrate on an hourly basis. Hope's years of proud service had not only livened-up the Front, he also made war more accessible to the ladies, kiddies and cowards back home (remember, this was decades before Saving Private Ryan). Undoubtedly, Hope taught thousands of servicemen a precious life lesson: a smile on your face wipes the blood off your hands.

There stood Hope, surveying the fresh faces of the amputee ward, and he walks right up to my dad. Mydad! Face-to-bandaged-face with a real-live Hollywood star! If he were any more excited, his leg cells would regenerate, stronger than ever, practically amputation-proof. Truly, this struggle was worthwhile.

"Lose a leg?" Hope asked.

"Yeah."

Hope chuckled. "Don't let it happen again."

Don't let it happen again? Don't let it happen again? A young man's lost a leg for a country that, being Mexican (insert joke here), he isn't even an equal member of, and Bob Hope's instinctual reaction was to advise, "Don't let it happen again" ("instinctual", that is, after inquiring as to whether, in fact, a limb had been severed). Confoundedly, Hope didn't follow up with, "Blind too, huh? No problemo, my next picture sounds outta sight! Seriously now, try to look—heh, heh—on the bright side: dames love fellas in sunglasses. And those adorable seeing-eye dogs! You'll have to beat broads off with a cane!"

Now, I enjoy laughing at another's suffering, especially when "another" is a relative. My sister's, well-limped imitation of our arthritic aunt is a family classic, as is my father's catch phrase, "I can hide but I can't run" (a particularly extroverted stranger once referred to dad as "Hopalong," much to my slightly confused but nonetheless ecstatic delight). But "Don't let it happen again" doesn't quite come across as, say, lame black comedy. It seems more of a clenched-teeth insult: the acidic mumblings of a bitter, aging narcissist—the idiotic climax of an idiotic career. Indeed, Bob Hope represents a tolerance-proof genius of idiot: the successful idiot. True, I don't have the man's SAT scores handy, but come on, anyone familiar with the Road To Blank classics would agree that Hope's cerebral capacity couldn't exceed that of a dead goat.

Predictably, his unintelligence was an asset: Bob Hope is more respected and famous than you (or even I) will ever be, no matter how noble your profession or worthy your cause. According to BobHope.com, he's been "cited by the Guinness Book of World Records as the most honoured entertainer in the world…[Hope] has received more than two thousand awards and citations for humanitarian and professional efforts, including 54 honorary doctorates." Yes, unless you achieve the status of an Oscar Wilde, Orson Welles or Oprah Winfrey, at best you'll only ever be The Time to Bob Hope's Prince and the Revolution.

Throughout the years, I've watched Bob Hope be adored by audiences (i.e., entertainment-starved soldiers), adored by low-caste lovelies (i.e., Brooke Shields and LaToya Jackson) and adored by fellow war-profiteers (i.e., Bill Clinton and his predecessors). I've gasped at aging's sadistic brutalities as, with each passing television special, Hope grew increasingly hunched and withered. All the while, the shackled spirit of those words haunted me: "Don't let it happen again!"

When my sister declared, "I hope something bad happens to that man," my parents quickly agreed, and I realized I had felt the same for years. Part of me always awaited that program-interrupting announcement of a massive heart attack, devastating brain aneurysm or skull-shattering shower-slip. At this blessed, inevitable moment, the Pichardos will most likely share a simultaneous family grin. We'll hold hands, watching, finally enjoying a sense of closure: "Dead, huh? Don't' let it etc., etc."

In short, I will be happy when Bob Hope dies. Some may find that relentlessly wicked, but for the life of me—heh heh—I can't see why. I'm not out to actually murder the man, I'd just prefer he wasn't among us. Can my desire alone affect his life span? Am I willing Hope's death? I'm not a genie, for Christ's sake. If I was, my dad would be a track star, and I'd have better things on my mind than the decrepit, nearly departed Mr. Hope.

Case in point: I've prayed for sex with Salma Hayek. I've tossed hundred-dollar bills into water fountains, wishing I were the Desperado. I've feigned leukemia in hopes the Make A Wish Foundation would set us up on a pity date. But guess what? Nothing happened. Nothing will ever happen. Even if she knew I existed, she wouldn't care. She'd check me off as another lusty, loser fan and go on about her sultry business. That's obvious. That's a fact. Nobody's yearnings have control over these things, even mine. No matter how I feel about Salma Hayek or Bob Hope, their lives won't be affected in the slightest.

When Hope does meet his overdue destiny, journalists will swagger about with affected sorrow, encouraging countless mindless Americans to literally—and in language they'd understand—"follow suit". The president, squinting resolvedly, will deliver an impassioned-enough eulogy, mourning the Pentagon's favorite fool. Of course, only Hope's fans (including anti-fans), his family, and Hope himself are, or would ever be, genuinely concerned with his mortality, and the fans should be screaming for blood along side me.

Imagine, if possible, being into Bob Hope, and watching your hero descend from producing the propaganda you've loved for years to taking embarrassing bit parts in K-Mart commercials. The line "Big K-Mart? This is big!" can cut deeper than "Don't let it happen again". It's your worst fear come to life: the great, white Hope has sold out. But maybe, just maybe, he'll die before he makes other, less forgivable career moves (a Tonight Show segment?), before the demons of history set him on the road to Jaggerville. True fans will understand: be it God, Satan, or any other crazed loner—this means you—someone has to kill Bob Hope in order to save him.

As for Hope's family, let's be realistic: those people come at the very thought of burying gramps, just like anyone else would in their situation. He's pushing a hundred and he's worth millions—does that sound like a formula for family togetherness? Please, no one ever married a Hope because they couldn't resist the family's trademark good looks; no one considers himself lucky to have been born a Hope because Uncle Bobby has tons of great vaudeville stories. They're sick of blowing the family fortune on diapers and hip replacements. The old man is a burden. His life is a cross on the back of Financial Freedom. With every beating of his heart, a Ferrari is repossessed. Every wheezed, choking breath postpones some godson's Malaysian vacation. Until all of Hope is as stiff as his arteries, little Leslie will just have to live with the nose God gave her. It's time to reward the younger generations' considerable patience. I hate being this honest, but no one will be happier when Bob Hope's dead than the people who love him.

Of course, Bob Hope has bigger problems than my contempt or the greed of his relatives. Despite his senile haze of quasi-sentience, Hope must realize that he has more yesterdays than tomorrows and his afterlife prospects don't exactly involve an eternity among the clouds. Though Hope's years border the macabre, he hasn't necessarily lost his lust for life—or his fear of divine judgment. By now, Hope's put a clause in his will stating that never, under any circumstances, should he be removed from life support. Hope probably calls his doctors around the clock, begging for any medications and surgical procedures—experimental, illegal, whatever—that may help him glimpse another cataract-filtered sunrise. Surely Hope visits the hospital weekly, restocking himself with the freshest organs money can buy. After all, one can never be too careful when averting the flames of Hell.

Truly frightening, however, is the very real possibility that Hope may cryogenically freeze himself, ensuring his venomous talentlessness will live on into infinity. By the time Hope's thawed, medical treatments may be so advanced that death itself would be obliterated, leaving the world forever without relief from his presence. Even worse, Hope might be cloned, and Hope-spawn scattered to every US military outpost on Earth (will each GI receive his own personal Bob Hope, increasing soldier suicide rates ten-thousand percent?). Hope-spawn would be too crafty and connected to ever end up in camouflage, but surely their laughable, authority-nuzzling humour will help them climb the officer ranks. These things could breed, consuming our society and enslaving us in caddie-bondage.

Maybe years from now, when I'm bitter, crippled and bed-ridden, a young, virile Hope-spawn will arrive at my door, eager to mock my physical frailty and loss of independence. Thanks to my faltering health, and the very real threat of death constantly looming over my head, I'll be unable to protect myself. To the clone, this'll all be fodder for dumb jokes and cheap insults. Then, I suppose, Bob Hope and my family will have come full-circle—and I might not have to go blind or lose a leg to enjoy it.

Copyright © 2001 Juan-Jose Pichardo. All Rights Reserved.

Juan-Jose Pichardo is a Chicago based writer