Like every other red-blooded American, I have Michael Jackson on the brain, so this is what I came up with in about 10 minutes:
Died with his slacks on,
Which is more than you can say for David Carradine,
Who was hanging out with a dirty magazine.
I entered it in Miss Conduct's contest (#24 if you click on the comments in the link above). It's gotta have a shot, right?
Along the same lines, there was an NPR story yesterday about the annual Bulwer-Lytton bad writing contest. So I was inspired in the car to jot down my own entry, which came to me unbidden on a flaming pie:
He knelt and laid a trembling hand on her shapely head, acutely aware of her parted red lips, her wide eyes, and her heaving bosom; then he gently pulled tresses of her auburn hair away from her dear face, whose normally placid exprssion was transformed by an impulse deep within her as she purged the last few ounces of the pitcher of sangria she had immoderately consumed earlier that enchanted evening.
Something about this continually shitty weather is driving my creativity.