RIP, Gary Marshall.
Seriously? That's all you've got? For the man who brought us The Odd Couple and Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley and Mork and Mindy and The Princess Diaries and even had that part in Hocus Pocus, that's all you've got?
Come on! My childhood memories are full of him. My children's childhood memories are full of him. He brought laughter and smiles to millions of people, and all you've got is an acronym that sounds like a fart?
And what about this guy?
I suppose for Alan Rickman, maybe you have a POOP? Peace, Ovations, Obsequies, and Prayers?
For Mya Angelo, something more poetic might be called for.
We'll give her BARF. Benediction, Applause, Respect, and Fondness.
If you can't tell, I hate the RIP. Hate, hate, hate it. It's is the laziest manner of recognition ever created. You know who uses it? People who want to be the first ones on social media to acknowledge the death of some big name star. I wonder how many David Bowie RIP-ers could name more than one of his songs? What about Joan Rivers and James Garner and Robin Williams? If you enjoyed the lifetime of talent and hard work and dedication these folks shared with you, don't they deserve more than the gallant effort you put forth to type three letters?
In conclusion, let me ask this one thing of you. When my Maker calls me, I beg of you, please do not RIP me.