Could you be mine, would you be mine?



O, Mr. Rogers! You have gone on to tv heaven. Every afternoon in 1978 Little Lambchop sat too close to the tv, rocking her bottom and singing along while Fred cardigan swapped. I don’t really have any jokes to insert here, because I am having a rare moment of a sincerely fond recollection.

I must add, however, that I am rather agape at Mr. Rogers mode of checking out. What’s the point of me trying to quit smoking and curb my alcoholism if Mr. Bloody Rogers dies of Cancer?! How can such a soft-spoken man have been riddled with tumors? Can’t really picture him bingeing on red meat and pouring vodka down his throat, lighting a smoke with the butt of the last one and screaming at his wife to get off his back about the goddamned dishes, can you? Well, another of the universe’s mysteries.

Thanks for Sharing. Farewell, Fred.

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