Every time I see a wino, I cry. Or, Mitch Hedberg, dead.

The title of this post being an allusion to the line, "I saw a wino eating grapes the other day. And, I was like, "Dude, you are too, early."

From the defamer.

"Mitch Hedberg Obits Arrive


If Mitch Hedberg’s tragic death is indeed an April Fool’s Day prank (as we’ve heard suggested several times on the internets), the jokesters have pretty thoroughly punked the media. Obits have finally started to appear online, like this one in the Pioneer Press from Hedberg’s hometown of St.Paul, which realizes every comedian’s worst posthumous fear: a newspaper reporter trying to explain their comedy.

Hedberg’s one-liners, dished off in a spacy staccato, were based on absurdist, random observations. His long, dirty blond hair harkened to the image of a 1970s stoner, and his success occurred in light of, in spite of and even because of his quarter-century affair with drugs and alcohol.


On second thought, there are probably worse posthumous fears for a comedian, like being found alone in a motel room with one of Carrot Top’s props lodged in a taboo body cavity, or somehow being associated with According to Jim. We apologize for not thinking that through, we’re a little caught up in the moment."