I’m glad to hear Bret Michaels is doing better. No one wants to see Bret die, for all the usual reasons you don’t want a relatively young and healthy-ish person to die, but even more so, Bret Michaels can’t die, because I can’t stomach the idea of even a single Hooters location getting one degree sadder.

America will weep, as once perky waitresses, now clad in black short shorts and a landslide of running mascara and self-tanning lotion, hand out wet naps for sobbing men to futilely attempt to dry their eyes as they mourn the loss of their hero, the patron saint of headbands hiding hairlines and Harley Davidson stickers on SUVs. The waitresses would be inconsolable too, crying not just for the loss of the man that made the music their mom played during child birth, but also for the loss of option seven on their “plan out“ list. Then the men will cry even more because they feel awkward and ashamed of their hard-ons, brought on by leering at the crying young women, as they try to convince their wife and kids that they are just there for the wings and camaraderie. It’s a horrible image.

Bret seems like a nice guy and has always done what most any other average American guy would do given the opportunity and selection of cowboy hats. In fact, Bret is America. He’s diabetic, sleeveless, and just trying to get back to his success from the 80’s. Bret Michaels is Mr. America, which is all the more reason he cannot die while under contract with Donald Trump.

The Donald is like a combination of PT Barnum, Joe Jackson, and Vince McMahon, but without the bearded woman, talented kids, or latent, repressed homoeroticism of Middle America. He’ll grasp onto any controversy or whorin’ opportunity like a pimp who just loaned a hot, orphan girl $500. Trump would make the Michael Jackson memorial service look like tea at the Plaza by comparison.

The final challenge of Celebrity Apprentice would be to plan Bret’s funeral, and the winner would be whoever made it the most profitable and Ed Hardiest. The service would be broadcast live from the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas. Cocktail waitresses, wearing only black body paint designed to look like widows in mourning, would serve as pallbearers, carrying an unwieldy and large rose-shaped coffin sponsored by Golden Palace. Inevitably, the coffin will become too heavy and awkward, and the mostly naked women with sweaty, painted hands will drop it, and Bret will fall out, which will be no surprise to Trump. What’s the point in televising a funeral if the body’s not going to fall out? Trump will drop to his knees, shake a fist at the sky, and shout, “God, you’re fired!” as pyrotechnics explode around him, and a choir of fat black women emerge from the wings, singing a special, soulful version of “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn,” immediately available for purchase on iTunes.

Bret doesn’t deserve that, so I’m glad he’s doing better.