Probably "I can't breathe in here! Get me out of this place."

I hate to speak ill of the dead, especially in the time between their death and funeral.

Ah, who am I kidding? I love to speak ill of the dead. I'm just like Geoff B. - I mean, there hasn't even been enough time to do the proper rituals to raise the Ted Kennedy from the grave and make him a flesh eating zombie, and Geoff, rather than let the family and friends mourn for a few days, decides it's time to make sure we all know just what a loser this guy was.

As soon as Geoff B. dies, you can expect this blog to do a post about that one time in Vegas (it involved Geoff B, a duck and two recently unemployed cab drivers) and all the times he refused to tip waitresses every time he ordered a sandwich.

Also, Geoff murders hobos. But I'll save the details until after he dies. Because, you know, I love to speak ill of the dead. The dead stink - they're dead after all. It's not like we believe the dead are aware of us and have a chance for redemption, right?