This from J Crowley at Pandagon most recently caught my eye (especially the final remark)
I heard the news on NPR this morning, and the sun seemed just a little brighter. Yeah, I know it’s maybe “bad protocol” to be happy about someone’s death, and I know conservatives are likely going to make a huge deal about the “liberal blogosphere” and how we’re maybe “being rude” or “inconsiderate” or “childish” or whatever (I’m predicting a lot of yammering about it from O’Reilly and Hannity and such over the next week or two), but I honestly don’t care. The world is better for his passing, and I see no reason to mute this sentiment “out of respect” or for whatever other placating, polite, arbitrary notion. He was a hate-mongering asshole with far too much influence, and his death is like removing a swollen, veiny, cancerous lump from humanity. Sure, you look at it floating in its jar of formaldehyde and you know it was made of the same materials you are, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be glad it’s gone, or can’t guiltlessly feel your body is better for it.
I will, however, admit I’m maybe going a step too far by thinking that someone needs to round up about a hundred people, drive a tanker of water out to the place where he’s buried, and spend a few weeks pissing on his grave in shifts.
Reminds me of the infamous competition for the most suitable epitaph to go on Mrs Thatcher's grave: "Licenced for Dancing".
There's plenty more on Falwell's death over at Pandagon - and other locations - which deserves perusal, and the Salon article by Alan Wolfe sums up why Falwell was always unlikely to get a pleasant send-off.