Patrick Bateman’s Take on the Hospitalization of Phil Collins

I don’t know what prompted me to do it. Something about that old saying about killing your idols maybe. I just knew that the thought of him singing “Sussudio” in that decrepit manner he’s taken to of late would send me over the fucking edge. The man has enough money to take care of himself for fuck’s sake, doesn’t he? Why doesn’t he invest the time in the self-care it would require to 1) look better, facially and 2) maintain the upkeep of his voice–his instrument? Daily doses of honey freshly extracted from a beehive housed in his own backyard. That’s just one idea. I hear they make moisturizer specifically for your throat, too.

When I heard about his back surgery, I knew I had my in for getting to him while he was weak. I got it on good authority from someone close to him, I won’t confirm or deny that it was his daughter, Lily (who can’t resist a big swinging dick with money like me that knows how to spend it, getting her into they very finest restaurants like Osteria Morini), that he had just gotten back surgery, and was having trouble walking. I realize the uncanniness of approaching him, now, after all this time since releasing No Jacket Required in 1985, his third solo studio album and one that showed remarkable progress and growth since his days in Genesis. But that was probably the last masterpiece he was capable of. I don’t think his final foray before the 90s was very adequate, and that title–…But Seriously–was the very antithesis of seriousness. Have some fucking pride in what you do. My god. So yes, I should have struck him long ago, before I ever saw U2 perform live and unearthed that Bono was Satan. The early 90s were a busy time for me though, and I sort of forgot the animosity I harbored toward Phil.

Not Dead Yet Live Tour. Hahaha. Not Dead–yet–is right. I’ll get him next time. When he least expects it. He can think he’s recovered from the head gash all he wants. He can get his publicist to lie for him and say, “He rose in the middle of the night to go to the toilet and slipped in his hotel room, hitting his head in the fall on a chair.” But he knows it wasn’t the chair he hit his head on. It was me. And I can go back for him anytime I want. Whenever I’m good and ready to finish the job. It’s just a matter of choosing which song to kill him to. I don’t know how on the nose–how meta–I want to be in selecting a track from his own particular canon, or if I want to be more disrespectful than that. Maybe playing something antithetical to his faux peace-loving, anti-capitalist bent. Like “Material Girl.” I don’t know yet, there’s still time to decide before he tries to subject the world to his deteriorative state at that upcoming concert in Hyde Park.