R.I.P. Edgar Allen Stiles (2005 - 2006).

"For the record, I think this is a bad idea."

You said it, Mr. Stiles.

Of course I'm distraught. That's a given. Losing Edgar Stiles is like losing a big, fat, dopey, punching-bag member of the family. But, more than anything, I think I'm angry. Certainly, I'm angry at those damned terrorists who put the Syntox gas in the ventilation system at CTU. That doesn't come close to the anger I'm feeling towards one Edgar Allen Stiles.

Edgar! You fat, bloated idiot! WHY would you ever leave the sanctuary that is your desk??? Except for donuts, hourly meetings, and getting bossed around by Chloe, there is NO reason why you should've been away from your post!!! That post being that forgiving chair holding up that fat ass of yours!

For Christ's sake, Edgar! If the gas didn't kill you, I'm sure all that running up the flight of stairs would've given you a heart attack!

What's the number one rule, Edgar? You sit by your computer and stuff your face. How complicated does it get? No going to find hot chick who'll never bang you in a million years! That's what Chloe's for, and we've all seen she's easy and susceptible to making the casual drunken mistake. All you had to do was live through the day, go out for "Celebratory Drinks" afterward, and badda-bing, badda-boom, you're IN there!

Oh Edgar. Damn you Edgar. Damn the WORLD that allows us to now live in an Edgar-less society! You know there's no fucking God in Heaven when a man like Edgar Stiles bites the premature bullet.

I don't know what I'm going to do with my life. I'm lost. For the last few days, I've just been wandering around the city, mumbling his name under my breath, in a zombie-like state. Of course, I'll never be able to look at a bag of Cheetos the same way. Or a King-Size Snickers bar, or a gross of King-Size Snickers bars. Steak gristle just won't be the same without imagining it slithering down Edgar's greasy esophagus.

That man had so much POTENTIAL! I mean, after Buchanan, Curtis, Jack Bauer, Chloe, Tony Almeida, Audrey, the overnight janitor, Lynn, Michelle Dessler's corpse, and Kim Bauer, Edgar was next in line to RUN that damned CTU! He would've been a fantastic leader, too. Always questioning anything that's not exactly by the book; being too focused in on one task to take a chance on something that could be better; having no time for a sex life because he's too busy working when he's not eating. If that doesn't say Five Star General, I don't know what does!

But, he's gone. He's gone and there's just no bringing him back. First we lose the greatest president that this country will ever see in David Palmer, then we lose the second-greatest computer-tech-guy CTU has ever seen this decade (but, of course, first in our hearts). What more could POSSIBLY go wrong? I just . . . you know, if they try to replace Edgar, I won't hear of it! There is NO replacing Edgar Stiles! They better save his desk exactly as he left it: sweaty, half-crumpled picture of Chloe in a white halter top on one of those warm, uneventful Summer CTU days by the beach underneath his keyboard for easy access; box of mini donettes with a half-eaten powder lying in the corner; half-full Big Gulp of Mountain Dew next to his CPU; framed picture of his mother - years before she was lost in the explosion - hugging her newborn Baby Stiles (a robust 15 pounds, 8 ounces at birth, already with a full head of hair and a questioning look in his eyes); and lots and lots of Werther's Originals wrappers cluttering the desk area on top of a thin layer of pretzel salt and hot dog bun crumbs.

And, if they even THINK about "moving on" without an Edgar Stiles Memorial Kitchen added onto CTU for the next season, I'll refuse to even THINK about watching! As it stands, this show is on thin ice. What kind of world do we live in where a pure soul like my beloved Edgar Stiles is shot down in his PRIME, but that damned, dunderheaded fucking president lives on!?! Lives on to bungle yet another fucking policy! Lives on to only make things fucking WORSE! And, yet, he's the one with the hot-ass fucking older lady for a wife with the two most luscious cans I've ever seen on someone over 50. He gets to live and keep fucking up, WITH the hot wife, and Edgar got nothing, had nothing, and in the end, is left choking on his own poison air. All because he wanted to check and see if a co-worker was okay.

This is the world we live in. I don't know if I can go on living any longer. Who will join me, in protest of Edgar Stiles' untimely passing, by following through in a mass-suicide? I've already got the Kool Aid (served ice-cold thanks to . . . KOOL AID "Mister Kool Aid Is My Father's Name" Man). All you gotta bring is the poison. Anything with a Mr. Yuck sticker will do (and, no, Mr. Yuck did NOT have any children called Yuck Man, thank you very much Nate for your damned logic, because I KNOW you were going to go there . . . God damned Pro Wrestling).

Or, you know, you could join Kon and my Edgar Stiles Facebook Club today. I'm sure he would've wanted it that way.

Fuck it. No Edgar, No Peace! Say it with me! NO EDGAR - NO PEACE! I say we riot! We riot first, through the downtown streets of Los Angeles! Keep Edgar's memory alive! What say you??? Are you with me???