There's Something About Dean Martin

Dean Martin has that extra special something. I can't quite put my finger on it. Is it the natty tux? Is it that velvet voice and dry wit? He's been dead for years, but even the way his flesh has rotted off his body has a gentlemanly charm. Normally I'm completely repulsed by the stench of human decomposition (hence that big deep freeze in my basement), but Dean's flesh is so soaked in Jim Beam that he reminds me more of the aging wood in the bar of an old Jolly Roger restaurant than most corpses. Sort of sweet and sticky. He has an unusually sophisticated manner, even though he just sort of lays there not saying much -- always the consumate straight-man. His bony fingers and left forearm are incredibly handy for clearing the lint out of your clothes dryer's exhaust vent. And when you make a little sailor's cap out of that purplish gray lint, pop it on his head and ask him to sign an autograph, he isn't quick to slap you with a restraining order like those other celebrities. Of course he's not quick to sign an autograph, either.

Dean Martin, I toast you.

* This post was originally titled "Why Dean Martin is Lucky I'm not a Gay Necrophile," but several ABC affiliates complained and I altered it.