HE CALLED TO SAY GOODBYE. THEY LAUGHED — BECAUSE COMEDIANS DON’T MEAN IT. January 1977. Freddie Prinze was 22. His show “Chico and the Man” was the hottest thing on television. He’d just performed at President Carter’s inaugural ball. America loved him. That night, he picked up the phone. Called his mother. His ex-wife. His psychiatrist. His friends. One by one, he told them he couldn’t go on. And they didn’t panic. Because Freddie always joked about dark things. He’d held a gun to his head before — with the safety on — just to get a reaction. That was his humor. That was the trap. His business manager rushed over. But by the time he arrived, Freddie had already pulled the trigger. He left behind a note: “I can’t take any more.” His son, Freddie Prinze Jr., was barely ten months old. He would grow up learning his father’s voice from sitcom reruns and old stand-up clips — laughing at a man he never got to know. The cruelest part? When a comedian tells the truth, nobody believes him.
He Called to Say Goodbye. They Laughed Because Comedians Don’t Mean It In January 1977, Freddie Prinze seemed to be…