Fucking Ken Lay “had a heart attack” and died. Odd, since the evil motherfucker didn’t really have one to attack. So let those suicide/face-transplant-new-identity rumours begin!

Still, his demise is cause for celebration in every household and office in the world (except those of greedy fucks from hell, of course). Gee, it would be so awful if someone with Marburg virus accidentally sneezed on Jeff Skilling.

I readily acknowledge my reservation for a seat in the aforementioned Flamey Pit by noting that, in several photographs, Lay/Skilling minion Andy Fastow is kinda hot (in a business-colleagues-who-had-one-too-many-at-the-convention-hotel-bar-back-in-the-guest-room-and-man-it’s-hot-in-here-mind-if-I-strip-down-to-my-boxers-what-the-hell-why-not-the-boxers-off-too-we’re-both-guys-after-all-and-I-could-really-use-a-backrub-oh-that-feels-great-now-it’s-my-turn-and-I-can’t-remember-a-thing-after-that kinda way). I hope, in at least some miniscule fashion, that this would make Fastow very uncomfortable.