Published Jan 1, 2007

Thanks for hosting another year’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve last night. I really appreciate you coming out and announcing the events of the evening, with the help of Ryan Seacrest, of course. And I really appreciate all of the execs who convinced you to come on TV again, despite the fact that your stroke gave you a massive speech impediment. And I’d like to thank you for that speech impediment, because imitating it was definitely a great way to get laughs from a very drunk crowd.

Of course, it was really nice to see you on screen, just where I expected you — counting down to the New Year. You’ve been doing that since before I was born and I’ll admit that I kind of dreaded seeing the inevitable replacement for you1 trying to fill your shoes. Then I heard you speak. Now, who let you out sounding like that? Your smooth baritone, so in control, so above the fray, so enthusiastic — it was gone. Replaced, as it were, by a more cosmopolitan Rocky Balboa.

Sure, you were a lot better than last year, but it was like watching Andre Agassi with no forehand — you can beat me any day, but you probably shouldn’t be out there against the Pete Samprases of this world. Couldn’t you, you know, stick to exhibition matches? Stand next to the Seacrest-bot and do just the countdown?

And which of your advisors and family members thought this was a good idea anyway? It’s not like you need the money. Why should you get out there, tire yourself out, and perform below your own expectations? I mean, apart from in order to give us a chance to mock your new mumble. Like I said, you pointed me toward the laughs.

I’ll admit I’m worried about you, Dick. Are you sure that stroke didn’t really hurt you? I mean, Seacrest? Seriously? It says great that you’re progressive enough to hire somebody with that lifestyle,2 but couldn’t you pick someone with talent? Or body hair? Don’t you have an agent who’s supposed to look out for those who are trying to exploit you?3

After all this time, what you really deserve, Dickie my boy, is to put up your feet and watch the ball drop from home, with a nice glass of Champagne4 in your hand. That’s much better than being the mealy-mouthed punch line for my jokes, however much I need the other people at my party to believe that I’m funny. Oh, won’t somebody please believe that I’m funny?5



1 Fergie?!

2 Specifically, that of an alien sent from across the galaxy to suck out our eyes and open the way for the invasion of the Brain Slugs

3 Again, Brain Slugs

4 Or, perhaps, wassail

5 Not after reading this! — Editor