Look at him.
Morely Freakin’ Safer.
He is le Gran Pere of CBS’ award winning news magazine, 60 Minutes.
I suppose he has every right to be arrogant, I mean he’s interviewed everyone short of God and after that Warren Buffet one-on-one a few years ago, we might want to rethink that.
But I don’t care for Morley and it actually has nothing to do with his talents, his writing, his politics, his interview skills OR his inability to properly coordinate patterns of his shirts and ties. Morely, Honey–Baby!!! There is nothing “safer” about mixing checks and polka dots, not even on Isaac Mizrahi’s WORST day, OK?
So, you’re probably asking WHY I dislike good ol’ Morl as much as I do?
Because of his show’s time slot.
Here in Houston, 60 Minutes airs at 6 (CST) Sunday evenings. ON those occasions when I tune in and hear the intro with that infernal stop watch ticking, that means the weekend is OVER. In a few measly hours, work will beckon and another long, boring, tedium filled week begins.
I see Morley Safer’s mug spread across the 36-inch expanse of my TV and that’s my first thought. That’s followed by overwhelming fear and anxiety. Then, once the 1 mg Xanax has sufficiently dissolved sublingually, I start to feel better, but I realize that I might not be the only one who experiences a visceral reaction whenever I see the lovely, dewy complected Safer.
I’ve done some research on this (and by that I mean I’ve discussed this with a friend) and he always tells me, “Laurie, you’re a whack job. There’s no psychological justification for this so-called and completely fallacious Sunday remorse you’re trying to perpetrate. Pure poppycock. You’re hearing voices again.”
That’s when I then tell the amorphic, yet chatty beings in my head, Napoleon, Hermann Melville and David Ben-Gurion to ignore him.
Funny thing about this guy though: he disputes this Sunday evening phenomenon, yet he gets sick by the time “The Simpsons” begin.
Friday and Saturday, the world is a great place; by late Sunday afternoon, the world is a ghetto….a nausea rife, bowel-churning ghetto.
“Coincidence!!!!” says he.
“Bullshit!!!!” says I.
Despite his pedantic ramblings to the contrary, I feel certain I’m on to something.
I am seriously considering contacting eminent psychiatrist, Dr. Pat Santy of the world famous blog, Dr. Sanity, to see if perhaps if there is some legitimacy to this and if so, how i might go about laying claim to this syndrome. You know, make it my own.
Like Asperger’s Syndrome, but with cognitive filters.
I’d call mine “Laurie’s Lament” or maybe “Kendrick’s Condition”. Perhaps, I’d get cutesy and change the ‘C’ in “condition” to a ‘K’ .
Or on second thought, “Morley Safer Syndrome” has a nice, melodious and mostly alliterative sound to it.
Besides, he deserves the respect of having his own malady. You see, Morely is getting up there. He’s old; so old that I’d suspect when he farts these days, he’s emitting dust like a badly hosed Hoover. Retirement for this human stalagmite is probably very, very soon.
So, when that day comes, it’ll be time to pass the torch. Morley’s replacement has to be someone offensive and off-putting; completely unfunny and hopelessly stuck in the swirling, talentless abyss of Sunday evening network mediocrity.
Wait!!! I’ve got it!!!! Yeah, that’s the ticket! We’ll switch networks—we’ll go over to ABC to check out that lame ass home video show in the same time slot.
Ah yes, the host of that show.
The very unfunny Tom Bergeron.
Fine. Great. Wonderful.
Let the Monday morning—“I’m sick and can’t make it in to work today. I have a bad case of the Bergeron“—calls begin!!!
The main symptoms? Oh, there are too many to name, but fear not my friends, this really is the PERFECT name for our new Sunday night syndrome. It’ll be taken seriously by bosses and co-workers because anything with Bergeron’s name on it, I assure you, is NO laughing matter..