Not even David Letterman himself on a randy night could ever have churned as much as those stories about him still churn.
His new nighttime prayer: “Please, God, You love all Your children. You help nobodies, untalented understudies, interns, unfunny guests. Now it’s time to help me — a star.”
Please. I mean, PLEASE. This is insanity. A grown man having consensual sex with a female of appropriate age? Shoot him. String him up. Kill the bastard! Sentence him to a religious weekend with Mel Gibson. Punish him. Whip him. Flog him. Place him in the stocks. Chain him to Dick Cheney. Stick him on Jay Leno‘s 10 o’clock hour. Beat him. Gas him. Maim him. Make him watch Jerry Springer reruns.
In California — where they teach literacy so people can spell their names on the unemployment form — you can be involved in a murder with less hostility.
After his wife accidentally ran into a sharp knife and got herself dead, O.J. was playing golf and had no problem finding a foursome. Robert Blake, whose missus, Bonnie, somehow walked into the barrel of a gun, has since managed to show up at a gala Super Bowl party. Why should he stay home alone with all his friends?
And there’s always Phil Spector, whose blond guest inadvertently found herself severely dead from a rifle shot. His big punishment? No Internet access in jail.
I mean, all Letterman did was bring a little pleasure to a willing woman. Or possibly even a big, large lot of pleasure. Anyway, it was for medical purposes. Just following doctor’s orders. His heart doc told him to exercise. Listen, it beats croquet.
But Letterman the Lover has to be Maced, Tasered, strangled, maybe a little suffocated. Take away his writers. Step on his glasses. Fill in his tooth gap. Record the conversations he’s now having with the wife. Toss him to savage beasts. David in the lion’s den. Force him to attend cocktail parties and be friendly. The dog must suffer for his crimes.
Society is pronouncing a pox on this guy? In an age of sitting governors and laying presidents? And candidates who cheat on cancer-stricken wives to make babies with younger, healthier bimbos?
At least Letterman wasn’t running South Carolina and didn’t blow his state off for a piece of prime Argentine meat while telling his wife he was up the Appalachian Trail. Whatever he was up, it was definitely not the Appalachian Trail.
Nor is there a memorial airport bathroom to be named after him as is the case with a certain senator. Nor did he allegedly accidentally mistakenly thoughtlessly heedlessly carve a ladyfriend’s face as did, unthinkingly, one of our Albany lawmakers.
So what if someone asked what David finds sexy in a woman and he replied: “She just has to show up.”
Mr. Letterman forced this lady? I don’t think so. This was no chick driving with a learner’s permit. Mr. Letterman even slightly coerced this lady? I don’t think so. Being in TV, she made a success of her affairs. She did it as a series.
Coerced? Forced because he’s the boss? Each beaut he’s supposed to have done it with has said she was mad about him. Crazy, mad, wild in love with him. I mean, why? That’s probably the only part intelligent people can’t come to terms with.
David Letterman had sex?! Hang him. Drown him. Choke him. Make him “do it” with “Miss Piggy” Charlene Marshall. Run him over. Off with his head or whichever other part protrudes most. Lock him in a cellar. Bury him in the sand. Introduce him to Lorena Bobbitt. Make him study 1988 presidential candidate Sen. Gary Hart and his tasty carbohydrate, Donna Rice.
As for the alleged blackmailer, maybe, maybe, it wasn’t all his fault. Maybe it was the fault of this two-timing girlfriend whom he so angered that she maybe said something to him like: “So what if I’m still seeing Letterman. If I have all the qualities you wanted in a woman, it’s no wonder I prefer somebody else.”
As for Mrs. Letterman. From now on when he leaves for work in the morning, she’ll kiss him goodbye with those three little words: “Don’t get caught.”
As for CBS, so what? They bow only to the God of ratings — and his are up. Not like this hobby is unknown there. I overheard one intern on a program discussing a particular producer. She said: “He dresses so sharp.” “Yeah,” said her friend, “and so quickly, too.” These are television people. To them it’s networking!
One lady summed it up this way: “To me, his only sin is he didn’t pick someone more attractive.”
As for this b.s. about sex in the workplace? I almost don’t know anyplace that has no sex in the workplace. In a world of morning-’til-night workaholics, where’s a person to meet another person? In the back of a car on Eighth Avenue? Through an escort service? Trolling singles bars wearing a mask? Following Jack Nicholson? Borrowing Spitzer‘s address book?
Let me leave Mr. Letterman with good news. Psychic research has informed us there absolutely totally definitely is sex after death. It’s just that we won’t be able to feel it.