He was never just a comedian. He was the soft landing after a brutal day, the voice that made pain loosen its grip for a moment. He slipped into our living rooms, movie screens, and late-night reruns like a familiar friend who knew exactly when to crack a joke and when to simply be quiet with us. His death at 69 didn’t feel like a headline; it felt like someone had quietly removed a chair from the table. The world kept moving, but something in the room had shifted, leaving us reaching instinctively for a presence that wasn’t there anymore. What lingers now isn’t the punchlines, but the way he made strangers feel less alone, each laugh a small, shining reminder that someone out there understood. And then, just like that, the stories stopped mid-sentenc… Continues…
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