RIP The Godfather Of Metal Ozzy Osbourone

Ah, the grizzled old goat of heavy metal finally shuffled off this mortal coil today, that gravel-throated banshee who fronted Black Sabbath like a demon conductor leading a symphony of doom. Every leather-clad, beer-soaked metalhead out there bowed their greasy heads in worship, picturing him as the patron saint of ear-splitting riffs and questionable life choices. He elevated the fine art of getting shitfaced and fried to something almost holy—a ragged ritual where you'd wake up in a puddle of your own regrets, grinning like a fool because, hell, at least the hangover came with a killer soundtrack.Picture this madman: biting the head off a bat mid-show, not because he was hungry, but because why the fuck not? It was probably still twitching as it went down, feathers or fur or whatever the hell bats are made of sticking to his teeth like some cursed garnish. And doves? Poor bastards didn't stand a chance; he'd snap their necks onstage like popping a champagne cork at a funeral, blood spraying the front row while the crowd roared for more. Then there were the ants—snorting them up like they were premium blow from Satan's own stash, crawling up his nostrils on tiny legs, probably throwing a rave in his sinuses before the buzz hit. Who does that? This glorious lunatic, that's who, turning every deranged impulse into a badge of honor, making the straight-laced world look like a bunch of boring prudes sipping tea in their starched collars.But oh, his music— that was the real gut-punch, the thunderclap that shook your bones and made your eardrums beg for mercy. "Crazy Train" chugging along like a runaway locomotive fueled by whiskey and wrath, rails bending under the weight of those solos that screamed like tortured souls. "Mama, I'm Coming Home" crooning soft and sinister, a lullaby for the lost, pulling at your heartstrings while kicking you in the nuts. And don't get me started on the Sabbath days: "Iron Man" stomping through your skull, "Paranoid" whispering sweet nothings of madness, the whole catalog a filthy bible for anyone who'd ever stared into the abyss and flipped it the bird.From what the whispers say, behind the chaos he was a halfway decent family man—doting on his kids like a grizzly bear with a soft spot, loyal to his Sharon through thick and thicker, even when she was shaving his eyebrows or dragging him out of whatever ditch he'd fallen into. She'd yell, he'd slur back, and somehow it worked, like a love story written in spilled beer and smeared eyeliner. Hell, maybe that's the punchline: this prince of darkness, this overlord of the occult, ending up as just another sap with a mortgage and minivan full of regrets.Rest easy, you shadowy emperor of the electric howl, you bat-munching, ant-sniffing, riff-ruling son of a bitch. The world's a little quieter now, a little less unhinged, and damn if we don't miss the madness already. Pour one out for the dark lord—make it a double, straight from the bottle, no chaser.