Prince of Darkness No More! Ozzy Osbourne Dies at 76 — Satan Himself “Shocked and Heartbroken”

The unthinkable has finally happened, dear readers: Ozzy Osbourne, the indestructible cockroach of rock and roll, the man who survived more drugs than an entire pharmacy chain, the man who turned stumbling around a mansion into prime-time television, has died at the age of 76.

Yes, the Prince of Darkness himself has left this mortal coil, proving once and for all that even metal gods eventually have to clock out.

Fans are sobbing, critics are pretending they always loved him, and bats around the world are quietly high-fiving each other because, let’s face it, their natural predator is finally gone.

The news hit like a dropped amplifier.

 

Within minutes of the announcement, social media went full apocalypse mode.

Twitter (or X, or whatever Elon is calling it today) became a digital graveyard of “RIP Ozzy” posts, each one accompanied by a grainy clip of him slurring his way through Crazy Train.

TikTok was even worse.

Teens who couldn’t name a single Black Sabbath album suddenly started crying in eyeliner, making shaky tribute videos where they howl at the moon while whispering, “He was my childhood.

” For once, Gen Z and Boomers are united in grief—though for very different reasons.

Hollywood insiders are already calling this “the end of an era,” which, let’s be real, is the exact phrase they’ve been using every time a famous person dies since Marilyn Monroe.

But in Ozzy’s case, it actually feels true.

This is the man who invented the rock-and-roll deathwatch.

Every time he tripped on stage, mumbled through an interview, or announced yet another “final tour,” people assumed it was over.

But no, like some sort of eyeliner-wearing zombie, he kept coming back, snarling into microphones, surviving spinal surgeries, ATV crashes, reality TV humiliation, and the most dangerous foe of all: Sharon Osbourne’s managerial contracts.

Speaking of Sharon, the Queen of Damage Control, she wasted no time stepping into her role as widow, manager, and PR sorceress.

 

“He was the love of my life,” she declared in a voice that could simultaneously summon tears and negotiate a record deal.

“And let me tell you, he’ll be headlining in heaven tonight. ”

Industry experts are already betting she’ll have a biopic greenlit before the funeral arrangements are finalized.

Working title? Barking at the Moon: The Ozzy Osbourne Story.

Netflix execs are reportedly throwing themselves at her doorstep with contracts, and one insider claims she’s holding out for a hologram tour to keep the money rolling in.

Because nothing says true love like a posthumous world tour.

Of course, conspiracy theories exploded faster than one of Ozzy’s amps.

“Ozzy isn’t dead, he’s just gone underground to rehearse with Satan,” one Reddit user insisted, posting a blurry photo of a goat as “proof.

” Another theory claims he’s been cryogenically frozen next to Walt Disney and will return in 2066 to headline Hellfest: Apocalypse Edition.

A third insists Sharon faked his death to boost vinyl sales.

And honestly? Given the entertainment industry, that last one feels plausible.

Meanwhile, the reactions from fellow musicians are rolling in, each more dramatic than the last.

Gene Simmons called Ozzy “the last true rock god,” which is rich coming from a man who once sold branded coffins.

Alice Cooper, still very much alive and probably annoyed about it, declared, “The devil better be ready, because Ozzy’s about to headline eternity. ”

Even Mick Jagger allegedly muttered, “Bloody hell, I thought he’d outlive me. ”

The Rolling Stones camp has refused to confirm or deny.

 

But let’s not forget Ozzy’s legacy beyond the bat-biting headlines and MTV chaos.

As frontman of Black Sabbath, he was the architect of heavy metal, the reason every teenager in a leather jacket feels justified blasting distorted riffs while glaring at their parents.

Without Ozzy, there’s no Metallica, no Slipknot, no kids screaming about Satan in suburban basements.

He was the blueprint for chaos, the man who turned darkness into a brand before Hot Topic existed.

His voice was gravel dipped in whiskey and panic, and somehow, it worked.

And yet, for all his legendary debauchery, fans loved him for being… well, a mess.

Unlike polished pop stars, Ozzy stumbled through life with the energy of a drunk uncle at a wedding—and we adored him for it.

Who else could turn a reality show (The Osbournes) into a cultural juggernaut by mostly mumbling “Sharon!” while dogs pooped on antique rugs? Who else could go from Satanic panic villain in the 80s to cuddly granddad meme in the 2000s? Ozzy was proof that no matter how badly you screw up, you can still land a gig judging America’s Got Talent.

That’s inspiration, baby.

But let’s be honest: Ozzy’s death has already been transformed into a business model.

Record stores are jacking up the price of Sabbath vinyl.

Limited-edition “RIP Prince of Darkness” shirts are selling for $100 on Etsy.

A candlelight vigil is being planned outside his Hollywood Walk of Fame star, where fans will gather, cry, and probably reenact the bat incident with gummy candies.

Sharon is allegedly negotiating licensing deals for Ozzy-branded urns that play Iron Man when shaken.

 

And somewhere, a stadium tour promoter is definitely whispering, “What if we just prop him up Weekend at Bernie’s-style for one last tour?”

The funeral, when it happens, will undoubtedly be a spectacle.

Expect leather jackets instead of black suits, pyrotechnics in place of candles, and a 21-guitar salute.

Rumor has it that Black Sabbath might even reunite one last time to play him out, because nothing says “rest in peace” like Tony Iommi shredding at full volume over a coffin.

One insider claims Sharon is in talks with NASA to arrange for his ashes to be launched into space, because apparently, heaven isn’t far enough.

Of course, tabloids like us can’t resist pointing out the delicious irony here.

For decades, parents warned their kids that listening to Ozzy would lead to early death and destruction.

Now, Ozzy has outlived half his critics, three waves of musical trends, and most of the bands who swore they’d replace him.

The guy was supposed to be the harbinger of doom, yet he ended up being doom’s longest-running employee.

And now, finally, doom has called him in for retirement.

So what now? Well, for starters, expect a spike in streaming numbers so massive Spotify might explode.

Expect every teenager with a skateboard and eyeliner to suddenly rediscover Paranoid and declare it “timeless. ”

Expect boomers to dust off their vinyl and tell long, boring stories about how they saw Sabbath live in ’72 and it “changed everything. ”

And expect Sharon Osbourne to somehow make more money off this tragedy than most countries generate in GDP.

 

In the end, Ozzy Osbourne leaves behind a legacy that’s equal parts chaos, comedy, and crushing riffs.

He was never polished, never perfect, and often barely coherent—but that was the point.

He showed us that rock stars aren’t supposed to be role models, they’re supposed to be wild, unpredictable, and maybe a little bit terrifying.

He was the bat-biter, the mumbling icon, the Prince of Darkness who somehow became everyone’s weird metal dad.

Rest in peace, Ozzy.

Or don’t.

Knowing you, you’ll be kicking over amps in the afterlife, biting the head off celestial doves, and demanding that God himself turn the volume up.

After all, silence was never your style.