Life without TV

Something is horribly wrong when a shoeless boy runs up to you in the morning to tell you Michael Jackson has died.  It’s the kind of thing that lets you know you’ve lost touch with the in-crowd, that you’ve found other things to do besides listen to the news.  And it’s wrong because you don’t know if it’s good or bad, if you’ve found something better to do than keep up with Mr. Jones or if your life has deteriorated and you’re left with nothing but to complain — incessantly – about the weather.  (And it is too hot right now.)

But that’s not wholly sad.  What is sad – what is downright tragic, is that Farah Fawcett died of ass cancer.

I’ve always warned past girlfriends that they should be extra nice to me, because pulchritude has a shelf-life, and when you force me to break up with you I know you’re going to have a one-weeker with some nasty bald guy who happens to have warts (which you won’t see).  And then you, too, will die of ass-cancer.