You never made me smile. You never made me think. You never made me curious, and you never entertained me.
You sat, you moaned, you whined on television. You spent thirty-three years humiliating yourself on Sunday night in front of the American viewing public, clunking like a tuba out of tune, stealing valuable airtime on perhaps the most intellectual news magazine in the history of the medium.
You failed to find the funny in fast food and supermarket checkout lines. You missed the gravity of Cobain’s suicide. You let your eyebrows grow into giant fluffy clouds of befuddled futility. If you had been a dog we would have put you down.
Andrew Rooney: you will surely forgive me if I toss you into the toilet bowl of history and pull the handle. Twice. You see, we’re all getting together and going out for beer and pizza.
And you’re not coming with us.
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