Heath is Dead, and Amy's on Crack

War, famine, injustice, genocide, bloodshed, corruption, global warming -- the existence of each in our world cannot be denied by any reasonably sane and educated person.

But, wait. Hold the effin' phone. Heath Ledger is dead. Just like River Phoenix and Freddie Prinze and Brad Renfro and Jonathan Brandis and my uncle Clyde.

And Amy Winehouse is smoking crack -- a drug addict just like Bobby Brown and Andy Dick and Shannon Hoon and Chris Farley and a former friend of mine who hasn't been seen or heard from in over six years.

Sure, they're all sad and tragic stories. But do they really warrant hours and hours of coverage on supposed news networks? Hell no.

Someone needs to tell Anderson Cooper and Bill O'Reilly and Katie Couric and all the rest of the talking heads to leave shit like this to the National Enquirer. There's a war on, people. And a presidential race. And a clusterf*ck called the economy.

There are millions of people without health insurance. There is violence in the world's streets. AIDS hasn't gone away, and neither has Kim Jong-il. Or that nutjob in Iran. Or that nutjob in the White House, for that matter.

When all is said and done, Heath Ledger's death is no more important to me than my uncle Clyde's death is to Heath Ledger's family. And Amy Winehouse's penchant for illicit drug use is about as commonplace today as Starbucks and iPods.

Our lemming-like ability to look past the real issues at hand in order to placate our inner celebrity stalkers never ceases to amaze me.

If, heaven forbid, Britney Spears suffers a similar end as Mr. Ledger, I sincerely fear for the fate of our planet.