R.I.P. This Blog (2007-2010)

Kidding. This blog, like vampires and Betty White, can never die. But if my extended absence really were just a prelude to retirement, thereby killing 50% of the blog, I would post the above video as my final farewell. E-mancrush Gabe over at Videogum suggests this video "taken in the dining hall of a cruise ship during rough seas...is a VISUAL METAPHOR FOR LIFE!" But it's also a metaphor for blogging in the age of parenthood and a wicked content blocker at work. Rough motherfucking seas, people.

Betty White Rides a Shark John Ritter Centaur; Betty White Eats a Shark Hot Dog

One of the maxims (maxima?) I live by is that it's okay to like things that are popular. It took a few years of therapy (high school) for me to come to this realization. Now, two Vampire Weekend albums later, I'm cool with it.

Still, some things, well, some things lose their luster when Internet memes and Facebook groups get a hold of them. I am of course talking about the Golden Girls, who have been a love of this blog's since the start of time. (What's a few Gypsy curses among friends?) Now I know that the Golden Girls were very popular in the 80's, and continue to be popular among 80's nostalgians and gay men of all stripes, but that's just run-of-the-mill interest group popularity that doesn't register much on the full scales of our wide popular culture.

But Betty White in a bikini riding a centaur John Ritter? Betty White Kobayashiing a hot dog? These images came up in my daily news review. Like, they are things in the news. Sigh, Betty. I knew you when.

Betty White Will Not Go Quietly into That Good Night

Here's some dude trying to knock the LifeCall bracelet off Betty White's liver-spotted wrist. But Betty White is feisty. She will insinuate carnal knowledge of your girlfriend, and then partake in a Snickers bar, before morphing into some guy and being good at football.

In other Superb Owl news, it must be noted that Barack Obama, despite his faults, will make Presidential history. I have to confirm with the Library of Congress, but I believe he is about to be the only sitting President to meet with two sisters Kardashian in one calendar year. Last month, Khloe Kardashian, wife of Lamar Odom, was photographed shaking his hand at the Lakers' congratulatory White House photo op. With Reggie Bush now winning a Super Bowl title, can we expect his muse, Kim to follow suit?

In other news, both ALF and Joe Lieberman continue to resist the curse. Blog harder, people.

The Curse Lives! (That is a Sadness, not a Happiness, Exclamation Point)

So, Here's what I've learned since putting a Google new alert on "Betty White": people don't really tend to report news about Betty White. This is really weird because I assume she's having so many affairs--so many blaffairs, in fact--with cast members of That 70's Show and she's always blowing rails with Mischa Barton at that new WeHo club. But I guess Google is not that into aggregating news about Betty White. Whatever. Sergey Brin is Racist Against Olds.

Anyway, I am going to go ahead and assume that Betty White is still alive, and, yes, 'Pockets and E, this makes me happy. What makes me sad, however, is the following: On January 1st I listed my films of the decade, noting in the comments that I had snubbed Fog of War on purpose. E quibbled. A month later the film editor for Fog of War was killed by a speeding getaway car fleeing an Upper Westside bank robbery. So, there's your curse in action.

Just in case this curse is real, I will now only blog about Joe Lieberman. And Alf. Definitely Alf.  I fucking hate that guy.

Betty White WIns Best Picture For "Being Alive and Defying the Odds: The Betty White Story"

Betty White is all like "bring it," taking it to Sandra Bullock's face and to the creeping, creaky finger of death that's slowly unfurling from this blog and pointing in her general direction. Fast forward to minute 5 to see some awkward glamorous-European-starlets-clapping-for-old-lady-sitcom-star action.

Rue McLanahan

Some scoff at my power. Others know. E draws this to my attention.  Sadly, my unintentional work is not even three-quarters complete.

Great Powers, Great Responsibilities -- Part II

I killed Estele Getty. I caused Morgan Freeman's car accident. And now I've arrested Brittany Murphy's heart. On Monday, I made a passing reference to one of Tai's great lines from Clueless and wondered aloud why we have a Brittany Murphy tag on this blog.

By Sunday Brittany Murphy was dead.

There are no words.

We can argue about fate, about a little read blog's murderous powers, or we can watch the above video wherein which Rue McLanahan parodies Brittany Murphy's character Tai from Clueless.

What the fuck is happening, people??

Also, sorry, Rue McLanahan. I cannot control what will befall you now. You deserve better. Forgive me.

Ted Kennedy, 1932 - 2009

I know there will be idle talk in the morning about the continuing brutality of Death's Grip this, the summer of 2009. I believe E. has made mention of it in these pages as well. But seriously, if we make it to the September Equinox with Rue McLanahan and Betty White walking among us in God's Dominion, then Death, I will know, has a soul, and we should all breathe a sigh of relief that He has claimed only Michael Jackson et al.

That said, the death of Ted Kennedy is notable and need be marked, not in the least because his death marks the death of mainstream, national Liberalism. I haven't really followed Sherrod Brown's record close enough to term him a liberal. Paul Wellstone has been dead for many years. Al Franken had hawkish tendencies during the buildup to and waging of the War on Iraq (and has declined taking on a serious and objective look at Middle East policy). And Russ Feingold, for all his anti-war tendencies and civil liberties street cred, was a whorish apologist for Israel's crimes against sanity in southern Lebanon in 2006.

Liberalism is a third-rail word in our electoral politics, As we know, despite occasional virtues, there is no real Liberal spirit among our elected officials. Watching our pragmatist, impotent President and the scatterbrained Democratic Congress he lets run wild, fail even to begin a dialogue on meaningful, universal health care coverage, without succumbing to the shrill masses, without stripping from their proposals health-care reform's central tenet, a public option, in some sort of pre-emptive compromise with the sullen and lame minority party -- watching this, we should know that the Liberal philosophy of equality, welfare, and social justice has no place in our Government. Ted Kennedy -- ever the parliamentarian, make no mistake -- did at least this: He wore Liberalism like a crest on his blazer. For that -- and not just that, of course -- he should be honored. And so I honor him.

But I am also a bastard. So, let me tell you my one Ted Kennedy story:

My childhood friend Paul, the eldest brother of three much younger boys, grew up in a stately manse near Embassy Row. One Halloween many years ago, he took his kid brothers out trick or treating. They got to Ted Kennedy's place, and rang the doorbell. The liberal lion answered the door, absolutely smashed, and with some fine Irish sloshing about in a tumbler in his hand. Bleary eyed, he sized up Paul's brothers, their arms outstretched for caloric bounty. In one graceless move Teddy reached for the bowl of Nestle Crunches, but in so doing knocked a lit candle into the dustbin. The contents of the dustbin immediately caught fire. Irish in hand, Irish in blood, Teddy let out a torrent of expletives and ran off for the fire extinguisher (or another drink, who really knows). Paul and the kids slowly retreated from his doorstep, sans Nestle Crunches. I'm not sure if they went back to casa Kennedy the next year.

Bea Arthur, 1922-2009

Sometimes there are no words. There are only sweet, sweet memories.

Great Powers, Great Responsibilities

Okay. Wtfuck, people? First, Estelle Getty dies -- on the heels of my malapropistic "Let sleeping dogs die" comment referencing Golden Girls -- and now comes word that Morgan Freeman was in a serious car accident last night (in a 1997 Nissan Maxima) -- just days after I took umbrage with his calling me out for liking three-button suit jackets. What the hell kind of symbiote has taken over my blogging abilities? If Wilford Brimley dies today, I am retiring from blogging. I mean, I probably should anyway because my Wilford Brimley post, it could be argued, was really an extended reference to Alexander Solzhenitsyn, who wrote The Gulag Archipelago, the source material for Cocoon.

Don't Sass Me, Fuckstick

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

How old do you think Wilford Brimley is? Seriously ask yourself. I've been reviewing documents to see if they're responsive to our the-law-firm-at-which-I-work's protective order while thinking about guzzling bottles of white-out from the supply room and ending it all. Well, not really. I get through these kinds of tasks with the aid of Hulu, Netflix's Watch Instantly function, and This American Life podcasts. Today, I've been catching up on a backlog of Colbert Report episodes, and he just now mentioned Wilford Brimley -- in the present tense. And I thought didn't Wilford Brimley die years ago? I looked him up on the Wikipedia, and not only is he very much alive, he's only 73. While that's not young per se, I would've put him in his late 80's, easy.

But it turns out he was only 59 when The Firm came out -- which co-starred Gene Hackman, who is almost 5 years older than him - and 51 when Cocoon came out -- which co-starred Don Ameche and Hume Cronyn, both of whom, were they alive today, would be about 100. Now, I didn't watch Cocoon, but wasn't Wilford Brimley supposed to be old as shit like those guys in the movie? Hasn't he looked old as shit ever since we were kids and Quaker Oats was the right thing to do? I think there's a really compelling argument against mustaches and oatmeal to be made here.

Estelle Getty, 1923 - 2008

Rose: Sophia, is that a Captain Jack's Seafood Shanty uniform?

Sophia: No, Rose. I'm off to discover the Straits of Magellan. Yo ho!

Dream Ticket

More Giuliani--this time with his potential running mate. I don't know. Slow news/personal news day, I guess (unless you really want me to blog about the crepe I ate earlier at Zola). Anyway, having bashed him for so long, I thought it only fair to celebrate America's Mayor's laudible sexual harassment policy.

Goodbye, My Girls! Don't Stop--

For all you intellectually challenged/televisually dependent Sopranos watchers who can't get over the personal affront of Sunday's subtle and unsettled ending, let me rub it in: This is how the pros end a TV series. F'ing genius. But if that doesn't mollify you, check out the clip above: Meadow Soprano is a really bad actress and can barely contain her fury about how the show ended, and the FBI Agent guy reveals that, as originally shot, the menacing dude at the diner makes his way to Tony. (Read: He gets whacked, people, so can we get over ourselves and talk about season 5 of The Wire?)

Estelle Getty Dance Party

Sometimes, I stop and wonder: I mean, am I just a little too into the The Golden Girls? Then I come to my senses and ask my marble bust of Stan Zbornak's head for forgiveness. The video below was posted on Defamer, and with Alberto Gonzales still in office, sucking at the teet of a helium tank, I need this kind of affirmation in mankind just to get out of bed in the morning:

Golden Girls for the Cookie Monster Set

Sometimes when I think of the guy who played Mr. Belvedere I become really sad. When I think of Estelle Getty I become despondent. The two together? I'm inconsolable. But here's one way we can stave off those tears, chums.