Here’s a travel note for Peter King: I only slept about 30 minutes on the redeye I took back from the West Coast on Tuesday night. I was in bad shape the next morning, but not as bad as the man in front of me WHO DIED DURING THE FLIGHT.

It wasn’t a complete shock: he was an old, old man, a veteran judging by his camouflage Army cap — old enough certainly to have served in Korea, probably in World War II. He was in the front row on the aisle, having arrived there only with the assistance of crutches and the flight attendants. Swollen ankles bulged from his sneakers, suggesting that blood circulation was not his heart’s strong point.

At one point during the flight he was snoring like a 19th century logging factory, and the flight attendant had to wake him up out of deference to the other passengers. When she went to wake him again as we began our final descent, she was less successful. “Well, he’s breathing,” said a second flight attendant summoned to the scene, but I doubted her diagnosis. From my vantage point in the second row, I could see the flight attendants exchange worried glances and hushed communiques over the phone to the cockpit.

When we landed, a pair of NYPD officers were the first responders. They carried the old man off the plane, and that was the last I saw of him. I suppose it’s possible that first aid and medical attention revived him, and now he’s back to his previous state of poor health, but I doubt it. I think I flew on a plane with a dead man.

Now, somber situations like this are not my forte. I only became a blogger when it became clear — to both me and all prospective employers — that my complete inability to feign seriousness made me a poor fit for the normal working world. And the normal world in general. With that in mind, here are some handy ways to break the ice when people are all upset that someone has died on your cross-country flight:

• ”Don’t bother my friend. He’s dead tired.”

• (to flight attendant) “Suddenly, getting hit in the head with falling luggage doesn’t seem so bad, eh?”

• “Ugh, I hate redeyes. I feel like death warmed over.”

• “Thank God no one realized he was dead until the final descent. That would have been crazy inconvenient if we’d had to do an emergency landing in Pittsburgh or Buffalo.”

• “Well, at least we won’t have to wait for our luggage at the carousel.”

• “People dying on airplanes is a lot more exciting in the movies.”

• “Too bad it’s not ten years ago. We could have blamed the airline food.”

• “This is why I never go anywhere with my grandparents.”

• “Oh, come on! He had friends who died at D-Day. He got, like, 65 extra years of life.”

Michael Jackson. Ed McMahon. Billy Mays. Farrah Fawcett. David Carradine. Steve McNair. Arturo Gatti. Oscar Mayer. A lot of celebrities have passed away recently, some under bizarre circumstances. We didn’t know what to make of all this, so we asked our weekly in-season analyst, God, to come in and help explain why so many stars are dying.

UNTO Almighty Me, we commend the soul of our brother, or sister, or single guy from Kung Fu who liked some freaky ass shit, departed, and we commit his body (or, in Michael Jackson’s case, his body and other assorted synthetic parts) to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Hart to Hart; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ…

Wait, wait. I dunno why the kid always gets credit here.

…in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord, Me, THE FUCKING LORD HIMSELF, BIG POPPA, at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world and any number of Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit competitions.

You know, then number one question I get at any funeral is, “Why, God, why?” This question annoys Me. First of all, it’s not very specific. I mean really, do you want me to explain why I set up biological processes as they currently are and how such processes came to a stop in your daddy? I don’t think you do. I think most people are looking to me for answers.

People who do this are fucking retarded. No less than three thousand people at the Jackson funeral looked up at Me and said, “Why?” Why? Really? You need Me to help you deduce why Michael Jackson died, people? The answer is laying right in front of you, morons. Maybe if Cobra Commander there didn’t pump himself with enough drugs to kill a longhorn steer on a daily basis, he might still be around. That’s why he died, shitheads. You really think I somehow claimed him at some unfortunate moment? Christ, you’re lucky he lived that long.

And I saw everyone at the funeral was all like, “Maybe everyone will leave you alone now, Michael.” Pfft. That’s not happening. I know what that freakshow did. I’m not leaving him alone. I’m re-blacking him and I’m gonna cordon him off from the kiddie cloud. Not so heavenly NOW, is it?

Same with everyone else. Wanna know why Billy Mays died? It’s not because I thought it was time. It’s because that guy should have laid of the Orange Juliuses. Then he’d still be around to sell the OrangeGlo. Then there are all these conspiracy theorists who are like, “Oooh, these things always come in threes.” No, they don’t. Trust Me. I have a Star Death chart. They’re much more evenly spaced out than you realize.

Now, I will admit to giving Farrah Fawcett ass cancer. I have my reasons. Let’s just say she was far stingier with Me than she was with Ryan O’Neal. Well, the tables have turned, O’Neal! Oh, Me! Oh, man! Oh, Me! Oh, man!

Suck on THAT.

As for McNair and Gatti, again, the answers are right in front you. Don’t blame all My mysterious ways for the reasons they died. Blame the women! Those bitches are crazy! Just like Farrah! It’s true!

The truth is, I don’t control any of this shit. I just set up the game simulator and watch how it plays out. Far more enjoyable that way. If you’re looking to Me for some sort of divine explanation, you are wrong. In fact, next person to do it gets ass cancer. Believe it.

Oh, and if I were Supreme Court Justice John Paul Stevens, I might be in the market for a sturdy casket right now.