The Dreaded Morley Safer Syndrome


Look at him.

Morely Freakin’ Safer.

Smug bastard.

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.

But who???

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.

This guy!!!!


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..


  1. LMFAO. I think you just ‘diagnosed’ the reason why I don’t watch TV on Sunday – after racing and/or football is over. I freaking hate my job, and I despise EVERY weekday, not just Monday. I wish to have a bottomless (but I’d settle for healthy and worry free without the effort of actually holding down a job to keep it that way) bank account already, allowing me to live in the style to which I wish to become accustomed – but nobody’s seen fit to contribute to the cause as of yet. To remedy this small setback, I am now in the process of writing The Great American Novel, which will bring me the lifestyle I deserve as a princess of my caliber. After participating in NaNoWriMo last month, I have an extremely rough draft (read: shitting mess) that I am now in the process of attempting to clean up, rework, replot, rewrite, and all those other annoying ‘re’s’ into something that someone of at least moderate intelligence would be willing to spend 9.95 on at Barnes and Noble.

  2. Awe… Crisco, hun…

    Thanks. Really.

    I fear, though, that a mixture of me and sex is something you could never handle.

    Besides – it would be a bit difficult to take under consideration all your expert advice on the changes I need to make when you return my work to me with all the pages stuck together.

  3. just be glad murder she wrote is no longer on right after it.

    i am.

    of course….that was 20 yrs ago. :O

  4. “Casca” is the prototypical abusive mind. Beats his prey down again and again until the recipient can take it no more, finally cutting him off (usually with the necessary help of the authorities.) Abuser later returns “promising” to behave decently. But if allowed back, it’s not very long till circumstances are back to the same ol same ol. I agree with Todd, here… this eunuch is a very sick puppy, potentially dangerously so. If he’s male, he is totally dickless in cominng here via a built-in safety zone of total anonymity; no one really knows who the hell he/she is. IT could live around the corner from you, Laurie. Be smart and permanently dump this worthless piece of shit NOW. There is no real battle of wits going on at all; eunuch has none.

  5. I’ve always had very public jobs. Gigs that placed me in the forefront of things and in the public eye…radio, TV news and even now as I dabble in print. That said, I’ve always attracted a varied audience that of course, included the mentally encephalitic and the lunatic fringe. I’ve come to expect regular visitations from these charter members of the strange.

    My problem is that I’m a sucker for a brilliant man. I love learned people. He can look like a troll (well, you know what I mean) but if he’s got chutzpah and moxie and loves literature and can discuss Nietzsche and use several big ten cent words, then looks have absolutely no bearing. There was once a man in my life that had almost ruined me from men in general. He exasperated me, confounded me…made me crazy and I was crazy about him. He is a brilliant man and understood me in ways that even I couldn’t grasp. Within our time together, I catapulted him to exalted status and that meant other men paled in comparison. The heart sometimes does what the mind won’t–it knows better.

    I do now.

    When you give far more than you get, you reach a point where you’ve got nothing left. I left the relationship deflated. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The truth is, I loved him a great deal, but he never loved me. He lied to me, he deceived me. Sadly, feeling disappointed was the only stable emotion he gave me. He was consistent with that and one other thing–he never failed to fail me.

  6. Crisco – if I have to draw a picture for you to show you the connection, I’m sorry darlin’

    Yer fucked.

    I can’t draw 🙂

    I’m likin’ this Todd character though.

  7. s’all good, Todd. I’m a veteran of internet chat boards where the rules is they ain’t no rules, and this kiddo is marshmallow fluff as compared to some I’ve been up against. I’d venture to say LK can most likely claim the same 😉

    He’s kinda fun to yank his chain a bit for a while, but soon enough, you get bored with him 😉

  8. Wow. I had no idea.

    Sure this blog is far more senior. My erstwhile effort is just a year and a half old. I thought I had the market cornered by naming my blog something pretentiously Parkeronian, yet I find that there is another blog with the same name. But that’s where the similarity begins and ends. There are some major differences. The author of that other Fresh Hell is named Bernie Keating, a masculine name which gives me pause to assume he is a man, from L.A. and decidedly Democrat.

    I am decidedly none of those things.

  9. Laurie, how can a man love a woman (or anyone else, for that matter) if he does not first love himself? It’s so frickkin simple, really. I agree with those on this board that feel Cahcah does not like/love you at all. In fact, he detests most of humankind — but no one more than himself. Such self-loathing! There are plenty of men out there with superior intellect who could discuss Nietzsche up the wazoo but who simultaneously posess a degree of decency and character. Find yourself one of THOSE and you will have made your match.
    And since when do you and your sisters claim the dysfunctional family gold ring? Most of us come from dysfunctional families.

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