Patrick Swayze RIP

Right now there are a legion of crying girls who grew up repeating lines about watermelons and jumping on couches mentally transformed into the waiting arms of a muscular, mullet-wearing dancer. I'm not one of them. I am, however, one of the legion of guys who are saluting the guy who said "pain don't hurt," who replied "Yeah, I got a name" when asked "You got a name?" and who sculpted Demi Moore's rockin' 1990s-era body along with a little bit of clay. Patrick Swayze passed away yesterday at 57 years old of pancreatic cancer. We all knew it was coming, but it still sucks for a lot of people out there. He was by almost all accounts a very good guy, he was married to the same woman for a long, long time, something that's almost unheard of in Hollywood (or you know, anywhere else on the planet), and nobody never questioned about his manliness despite an affinity for dance because of his equal willingness to repel a Russkie invasion with only Jennifer Grey and Charlie Sheen to help him. Just a quick, totally unwelcome moment of seriousness in an otherwise gigantic sea of quips and bitchy little side comments: Rest in peace, Patrick. Also, it's worth pointing out that which we already know but need to be reminded of time and again: smoking will f**king kill you. For realz. It killed John Wayne and now Patrick Swayze. It will kill you. Everybody's tried it, everybody should stop. There, now I'm going to go check with my parole officer and see if that post counted as community service.