British actor Clive Owen, star of box office hits like “Sin City,” “Elizabeth: The Golden Age,” and “King Arthur,” is expected to die, according to people familiar with death.
The 46-year-old heartthrob, famed for his slightly nasal London twang, lusterless delivery and not being as good as co-star Julia Roberts in “Duplicity,” is in apparently good health, but death experts tell “International Crime Authors” that he will probably be tragically dead by 2060 at most and could go any day between now and then.
To be sure, this revelation, which will shock Hollywood, doesn’t take into account cryogenics or further potential developments in the Botoxing of internal organs by Southern Californian doctors, dental hygienists and auto mechanics. Nonetheless, Hollywood bloggers are sure to take news of Owen’s eventual demise as a sign of the mortality of other stars who seem to be otherwise a long way from their end.
How long can it be before Ben Affleck and Scarlett Johansson, among many others of Tinseltown’s Glitterati, begin to feel Death’s icy fingers gripping their innards and disturbing the digestion of their soy lattes? Will Calista Flockhart’s appetite wither for the Cobb salad she doesn’t eat during interviews over lunch at famed Santa Monica eatery Caché, when she thinks of “Time’s winged chariot hurrying near”? And what good will the conviviality and brotherhood of “Entourage” be to Mark Wahlberg, when paging through seventeenth-century French egghead Blaise Pascal’s Pensées he considers that “We shall die alone”?
Owen, or perhaps his agent, is sure to come to the realization that he hasn’t a day to lose. Faced with death, he must open himself to all the experiences a man may have. After all, when he lies on his death bed – perhaps in 2055, but potentially as early as today – will he ask himself: “Why didn’t I work more? Why didn’t I do a sequel to ‘The Pink Panther’?” No, a thinker like Owen who graduated London’s Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (Do they do thinking there? Check this, please – Editors) will have concern for the way he fed his head, when he prepares for the big sleep. Perhaps he’ll ask himself, “Why didn’t I read more of Matt Beynon Rees’s books?”
What will you ask yourself, when the Grim Reaper ties you to a barn door and starts to sharpen his scythe? Read my books now. NOW! You may only have fifty more years or much, much less to do so.
(Editors note: none of this applies to Johnny Depp, who will be fired into space in a rocket, like his pal Hunter S. Thompson.)