Sam Cooke was havin’ a party, got shot

by Edward H

July 12, 2008

1950’s & 60’s soul / pop legend Sam Cooke went the way of any self-respecting musician. Which is: exiting this fucking place way too early. While many musicians choose the sissy way of dying young to an overdose, Sam Cooke went the “oh shit!” route and was shot to death on December 11th, 1964 at the age of 33. Some crazed motel manager shot him in “self defense” as he 3-arm wrestled her (stir-stick included) wearing only his shoes and overcoat. And if I know anything about being buck naked in a motel wearing just your shoes wondering where the hell that prostitute went, it means: you’re either Hugh Grant, or you’re training to be the next governor of New York. High five, political humour!

Allegedly having stormed into the front office demanding to know where the cooz he was shacked up with ran off to, he attempted some Bas Rutten type moves on this manager so he could get some friggin’ answers. Dangity dangity dang! Included in my extensive sideroad motel knowledge is how to deal with motel managers: don’t. Of course there’s no way Sam could have known this — Psycho, Vacancy, and that movie with John Cusack playing 7 different versions of himself killing each other at that conveniently-isolated-by-a-storm motel hadn’t come out yet. During the wrestling match between the manager and Cooke, she turned to the gun every motel keeps on the counter (right next to that cute little counter bell. Ding!) and shot him on the spot. Bang! To which the clerk in the office came out saying, “Yes, can I help you with–oh. Oh! Sorry. I thought that noise was the bell. My bad. If you need me, I’m taking a smoke break.”

During the investigation, that bird he was with (later arrested for prostitution) claimed he was going to rape her, and that she escaped (with his clothes?) while he went to the bathroom. Doing my own personal investigation into this case, and at the cost of a few spare dollars, a ruined nose liner, and years of dodging VD (that’s right, I’m willing to put myself in harms way in the name of investigative journalism), I have documented the following facts:

1. You don’t rape a prostitute — you pay them. Sometimes they want lots, sometimes they just say, “Have a good day, sweetie. See you after work.”
2. It’s highly unlikely seconds before raping a prostitute (see item 1) you say, “…just a second, sweets. I’m gunna go hit one more line before I do this. Wanna bump? No? You’re good? Okay, stay right there though. Promise I’ll be quick.”
3. Famous people never ever ever rape women.
4. And finally, a hooker’s wardrobe cannot be confused with normal person clothing. It’s scientifically impossible. Fact.

When I get my hands on a time machine, I’m bringing Bas back with me to rescue Sam Cooke. And  you’d better believe that sports almanac is coming with me.

We’re Havin’ a Party, by Sam Cooke

1.21 giggawatts!
Edward H.

UPDATE: Psycho came out in 1960. So scratch that idea. What the hell was he doing fucking with the help?

With Love & Rum. Alcoholics: Anonymously.