There was a time when I was a devoted fan of Saturday Night Live.
I watched it faithfully whenever it was on. Sometimes I watched the reruns if I knew a program I had enjoyed the first time was being shown again.
But in recent years I have lost interest in Saturday Night Live. I don't mind if comedy occasionally takes sides on an issue, but Saturday Night Live's comedy has shown entirely too much bias for my taste in recent years.
I don't tend to watch late–night TV much anymore. And on Saturday nights, I usually find something else to do when Saturday Night Live is on. Such was the case last night.
I really regret that now.
This morning I saw a video of a skit that ran during last night's show that was so reminiscent of SNL in its prime. It was set during the Revolutionary War with colonial leaders gathering in Philadelphia's Independence Hall to discuss things. There was a collective groan when news reached them that the British had been defeated in New England.
At that point the patriots from New England came into the room, hoisting beer steins and boasting of their victories ("We are the patriots of New England, and we are unstoppable!") — especially the latest one in which their leader, Capt. Thomas Brady, had launched a great comeback with his cannon after the British had pushed the patriots "fohty yawds" behind their line.
Then the delegation from Philadelphia came in. They used words like youse and called Boston a "college town with a fishing pier" and referred to themselves as "rowdy Quakers." They brought food like venison hoagies.
Obviously the skit was poking fun at the participants in the Super Bowl, which is slated to start in a few hours.
Maybe you have to be a lover of history like myself to appreciate some of the humor, but it really struck me as the best skit of its kind since early in SNL's existence, when the program's trailblazers like Bill Murray and Garrett Morris saluted Lord Douchebag (Buck Henry).
Anyway, the skit came to an end when the two groups agreed to take their fight outside — and the delegates who remained in Independence Hall wondered if it would be possible for both to lose.
No doubt millions of people are wondering the same thing today.
[talking into the telephone] "What are you wearing right now? No bathrobe? [notices the audience, hangs up telephone] Good evening. I'm Chevy Chase!"
Chevy Chase, Oct. 11, 1975
American television changed 40 years ago tonight. At least on Saturday nights.
In 1975, CBS ruled primetime on Saturday nights with "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," "The Bob Newhart Show" and "The Carol Burnett Show" running in a two–hour block from 9 to 11 p.m. (Eastern time), but late night was still a vast, unexplored frontier. NBC's affiliates had been running "Best of Carson" compilations from Johnny Carson's Tonight Show on weekends, but Carson announced in 1974 that he wanted the weekend programs pulled and archived so they could be used during the week when he wanted to take time off.
My memory is that Carson always invited a guest to substitute for him when he took time off, though, right up until his retirement in 1992, and I'm not sure how extensively "Best of Carson" was used, if at all, in some markets. Its weekend schedule was very flexible. Affiliates were allowed to show episodes either on Saturday or Sunday, at their discretion.
In the days leading up to that first show, inaugural host George Carlin appeared on primetime promotional ads in which he was depicted as a participant in a stage construction project. NBC was putting the finishing touches on a new show, he told the TV audience, and he invited everyone to tune in on Saturday night.
If you were a George Carlin fan, you were already familiar with the material he used in the first–ever Saturday Night Live monologues. He didn't deliver an original and topical monologue, as hosts do now. He basically lifted jokes from several albums that had been in circulation for years and compiled them into a monologue.
But it was still a treat to see him doing those routines. And he commanded enough star power to draw audiences. So, too, I suppose did the first show's musical guests, Janis Ian and Billy Preston, both of whom had enjoyed some popularity in the early to mid–'70s.
And that is the primary objective of a new TV program — attract an audience. There certainly was a late night audience waiting to be tapped. In 1975, most of America still had only the three networks, a public broadcasting network in many (but not all) areas and maybe an independent station or two. Cable TV was a presence in only a few areas — and wasn't nearly as extensive as it is today.
Everything about the show was new and evolving. Even the name was different. It started out as just Saturday Night. When the program debuted, there already was a program called Saturday Night Live starring Howard Cosell on ABC, and it remained on the air for the first months of SNL's existence. More than a year after Cosell's program was canceled, the show now known as Saturday Night Live took that name — in March 1977.
What we now know as Saturday Night Live began simply as NBC's Saturday Night. The "live" was a description. Go back and watch Chevy Chase's intros of those early programs. "Live from New York," he always said, "it's 'Saturday Night.'"
If you remember those days, you can probably hear Chevy saying that in your head without having to look up a clip at YouTube or anyplace else. Of course, SNL has been using that inroduce each episode for 40 years now so you don't really have to search your memory bank for an audio file of Chase saying that phrase.
Chase said it that way from the first. Then, as now, the show opened with a skit. That first skit showed two people sitting in chairs facing each other. One was writer Michael O'Donoghue who played a professor giving a European immigrant (John Belushi) English lessons. That skit is remembered as the "Wolverine" sketch because the professor was always giving the immigrant sentences to say that included that word. For example ...
Professor:Let us begin. Repeat after me. I would like ...
Immigrant: [in a thick accent] I would like ...
Professor:... to feed your fingertips ...
Immigrant:...to feed yur fingerteeps ...
Professor:... to the wolverines.
Immigrant:... to de wolver–eenes.
The English lesson was cut short when the professor clutched his chest and collapsed on the floor.
From off–camera, Chase emerged to announce that it was Saturday Night. Ever since that time it has been a staple of the show to have someone — sometimes several people — break character to utter that familiar phrase.
The show, as I say, was evolving. My memory is that Carlin didn't participate in any skits other than his opening monologue. Today, of course, guest hosts are full participants in that week's show. I don't know when that changed. It probably developed over time. SNL always has been a work in progress.
The skits were handled by the Not–Ready–For–Prime–Time Players, which introduced America to people who became quite familiar in short order — Chase, Belushi, Dan Aykroyd, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Laraine Newman and Garrett Morris.
Often, SNL has created cultural catchphrases, reaffirming its social relevance after four decades on the air. It has been resilient. In the late '70s, few people thought SNL could survive the departure of Chevy Chase, but it did. It has become a training ground and career launching pad for the stars of tomorrow.
The program's political skits have become so legendary that a compilation program of politically themed skits always airs during a presidential election campaign, and Chevy Chase's early portrayals of a clumsy Gerald Ford are sure to be included.
In countless unexpected ways, SNL has influenced the culture. Who would have thought on this night in 1975 that it would still be on the air in the 21st century?
"If you have selfish, ignorant citizens, you're going to get selfish, ignorant leaders."
George Carlin (1937–2008)
Five years ago today, George Carlin died of heart failure at the age of 71.
He was my favorite comedian — still is — and I still laugh when I hear his recordings.
And I marvel at his wisdom. It remains relevant, be it five years after his death or 40 years after it was put on a record.
That is the special gift of artists. Perhaps they paint or sculpt or perhaps they are comedians or actors or musicians — or writers like myself. The best do things that make deep impressions on us and continue to do so — even long after they are gone.
For me, George Carlin was such an artist.
At times, it almost seems as if there has never been a time when I did not know his name, but I know that isn't true. As nearly as I can remember, I first heard of him when I was in sixth grade. Some of my friends' parents (or older siblings) had his early comedy albums, and they had memorized some of his routines. They couldn't wait to share them with me, and I couldn't stop laughing when they did.
(The only comedy album my parents had was one by Bob Newhart. It was funny, but Newhart was never as funny as Carlin.)
I laughed even more when I heard the albums. I'm listening to one as I write this, and I have to stop writing now and then because it's too hard to write when I'm laughing so hard. I know what's coming — I've listened to them so often over the years that I have the material on many of his albums memorized — but they're still funny.
I expect Carlin to keep me laughing for the rest of my life.
Like any great artist, Carlin had certain themes to which he returned, time and time again.
He often ranted about language (which, as a journalist, I appreciate — and I often wonder if his routines, in some way, served to steer me in that direction). I could appreciate it when he complained about the pomposity of language, how it was often designed to conceal things.
"You can't be afraid of words that speak the truth," he said. "I don't like words that hide the truth. I don't like words that conceal reality. I don't like euphemisms or euphemistic language. And American English is loaded with euphemisms."
And Carlin wouldn't stop after an observation like that. He delivered with both barrels.
"Sometime during my life," he said, "toilet paper became bathroom tissue. I wasn't notified of this. No one asked me if I agreed with it. It just happened. Toilet paper became bathroom tissue.
"Sneakers became running shoes. False teeth became dental appliances. Medicine became medication. Information became directory assistance. The dump became the landfill. Car crashes became automobile accidents. Partly cloudy became partly sunny. Motels became motor lodges. House trailers became mobile homes. Used cars became previously owned transportation. Room service became guest room dining. Constipation became occasional irregularity."
See what I mean?
Carlin had some choice words to say about things like religion, politics and several subjects that usually aren't mentioned in polite company. But it was his routines on language that I liked the best.
Like his most famous routine — "Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television." In recent years, I have heard a few of those words on television, which is something I think would have amused Carlin. Perhaps it did. A word or two from that list had already gained a certain amount of TV acceptance by the time of his death.
Nevertheless, I think he was spot on about some of those words. I doubt that they will ever be permissible on network television (cable is another matter) — at least, not in my lifetime.
The movies, of course, are another matter, and Carlin did appear in a couple of movies. I saw one — "Dogma" — which came out in 1999. Carlin (who was brought up a Catholic) played a Catholic cardinal who was busy promoting a new pro–Catholicism campaign — Catholicism Wow! — with a more modern version of Jesus (Buddy Christ) as its representative.
I can only imagine how Carlin responded when the part was offered to him.
Carlin always seemed to be busy with something. On Oct. 11, 1975, he was the very first host of Saturday Night Live.
I know it is hard for a lot of people in the 21st century to believe, but, for about a decade before the debut of Saturday Night Live, NBC aired reruns of Johnny Carson late on weekend nights. But Carson decided he didn't want to do that. He wanted to hold the taped shows to run during the week whenever he took time off.
That alone was kind of a stunning development. Originally, Carson preferred to have guest hosts (of which Carlin was one) to fill in for him when he took his vacations. He wanted the show to be fresh in those days.
NBC ran promotions for the new show, featuring Carlin, for weeks — and, when the show made its debut, it was an immediate smash hit. Part of that was undoubtedly due to the talented ensemble cast (the Not–Ready–for–Prime–Time Players), but I always felt that at least part of it was because of Carlin's popularity.
In October 1975, I don't think anyone knew the names of those who would become regulars on the show — but darn near everyone knew who Carlin was, and I believed that a lot of people who tuned in that night did so because Carlin was the host. I know that is the reason why I tuned in.
I don't recall if Carlin ever hosted SNL again. But he lent the show his fame in its first program, which gave it instant credibility. And, once people watched it and began to become familiar with people who would soon be household names (i.e., John Belushi, Chevy Chase, Dan Aykroyd), they became regular viewers.
SNL has now been on the air for nearly 40 years. It is conceivable it would not have lasted past its first night if Carlin had not been the host.
Words really can't express how shocking it was to hear 15 years ago today that comedian Phil Hartman was dead.
It wasn't really a shock to hear that someone from Saturday Night Live was dead. The public had already been conditioned to that to some degree with the deaths of John Belushi in 1982, Gilda Radner in 1989 and Chris Farley in 1997.
There was already something of a perception that people with SNL connections were somehow more likely to die young than their peers.
But Hartman really didn't fit the profile. He was nearly 50 years old, and he had neither a history of risky behavior nor a life–threatening disease.
What wasn't generally known was that his wife was unstable.
And, fueled by drugs and alcohol in the early morning hours of this day in 1998, she shot Hartman to death while he slept, confessed to at least two people that she had killed her husband, then turned the gun on herself.
Most of the people who have studied homicide and suicide will tell you that men are far more likely to use a gun than are women — at least when it comes to suicide. I'm not sure about homicides. I'm not really sure how one would classify this case — except to say it was a tragedy.
Frankly, I'm not sure I would have used the word tragedy to describe what happened 15 years ago. Most people probably would describe it as a tragedy; I guess it depends on how one defines tragedy. I think of a tragedy as being something that is beyond human control — a natural disaster.
In that context, it was hard to know how to classify the Hartman murder–suicide. Was it beyond anyone's power to control, like a hurricane or an earthquake? Or perhaps it could have been prevented if people who knew Hartman's wife was unstable had done something instead of remaining silent.
Such silence may have been the real tragedy. Or perhaps Brynn Omdahl Hartman concealed her condition from everyone. Maybe that is what made it tragic — the fact that there may have been no way for anyone to see it coming, perhaps not even Hartman's closest friends.
There are still — and will, I fear, remain — so many unanswered questions.
With Belushi, I think there were always suspicions that his life might end the way it did. Naturally, his death was met with grief but not necessarily shock.
Farley's weight issues were well known and, apparently, his substance abuse problems also were known among his friends and family. In hindsight, the two were a volatile mix.
Radner's ultimately fatal battle with cancer was not a secret — but neither was it widely known so her death might have been a surprise to some.
But Hartman's death was totally unexpected.
I remember when word of his death reached the office where I was working. Everyone seemed quieter, more subdued than usual. Even those who probably didn't watch SNL often, if at all.
There probably weren't many of them in those days.
Periodically, of course, SNL has had low ratings, typically when it has gone through major changes in the cast.
But back in the mid– to late 1980s and early to mid–'90s, I guess, just about everyone watched it — when Phil Hartman and Dana Carvey were on the show.
There were others, too, but everyone tuned in mostly to see those two. Personally, I always think of Carvey posing as Ross Perot and Hartman posing as his running mate, Admiral Stockdale, in an SNL skit during the 1992 presidential election campaign.
They were also funny in a brief but memorable segment of a longer skit when Carvey played Jimmy Stewart visiting his old Hollywood pal, Ronald Reagan (played by Hartman), in the White House.
But Hartman made a name for himself doing other portrayals. For example, I don't know if anyone else on SNL portrayed Reagan. I'm sure someone must have, maybe even someone I ought to know but whose name escapes me now, but I was just as entertained by Hartman's portrayal of the Gipper as I was by Dan Aykroyd's portrayals of Richard Nixon and Jimmy Carter.
And I thought his portrayals of Bill Clinton were side–splittingly funny. Of course, I grew up in Arkansas, and I watched from up close — I was a young reporter covering one of his gubernatorial campaigns — as Clinton's then–flagging political career got a jump start.
So I suppose some things that I found especially funny were things that most casual observers would miss. Hartman picked up on those things.
That was my first thought when I heard that Hartman was dead. I thought of him as Clinton, and I thought that I would miss that a great deal.
That was a rather selfish way of looking at it, I guess. And I have felt bad about that in the last 15 years, but the truth is that I did miss him in the last years of the Clinton presidency — and in the more than 10 years since Clinton left the White House.
I assume that, if Hillary Clinton is elected president in 2016, former President Clinton will come with her to the White House, which would have been a situation too rich with possibilities for Hartman and the SNL writers to ignore.
But that is speculation (and, too, it presupposes that a nearly 70–year–old Hartman would either remain with SNL for two more decades or return as a guest).
The real loss was suffered by Hartman's two children, both under 10 at the time and now in their 20s. They will begin to inherit their father's estate when they turn 25 — the oldest turns 25 next year — but they have had to grow up without their parents, and that is a loss for which no amount of money can compensate.
On this date in 1978, Steve Martin was hosting Saturday Night Live.
That wasn't a big deal, really. SNL was not quite three years old at that time, but Martin had already been the show's host on four different occasions.
On this night in 1978, however, he made his first appearance as Theodoric of York, a Medieval "barber" (read: doctor) whose preferred prescription for any ailment was a bleeding.
(Well, I think it was Theodoric's first appearance. I haven't seen any mention of that character in Martin's previous stints as host.)
Steve Martin was hysterically funny as Theodoric. In fact, I actually preferred his lampooning of the Middle Ages to his jabs at Eastern European people, as in his recurring Festrunk brothers skits with Dan Aykroyd.
The Czechoslovakian brothers may have been more popular (they were the "wild and crazy guys"), but Theodoric had a "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" feel to it that I really liked. Theodoric's logic always reminded me of the witch scene in "Holy Grail."
And, like the "Holy Grail," this is something I can watch endlessly and always be amused.
How could anyone not be entertained by Steve Martin and the original Not–Ready–for–Prime–Time–Players ensemble?
Paul McCartney is 70 years old today, which seems incredible to me.
I don't remember much about the early days of global Beatlemania, but I do recall that McCartney was generally regarded as the attractive Beatle.
The other Beatles had their devotees, of course, but the impression I got was that most of the young women of that time had serious crushes on Paul.
I never really understood that. Paul wasn't the youngest of the Beatles (that was George Harrison) or the wittiest of the Beatles (as far as I was concerned, that was John Lennon). Maybe there was a perception that he looked more boyish than the others — but, as far as I was concerned, they all looked boyish when they burst onto the scene.
There was a good reason for that, too. They were all in their 20s.
McCartney always had a knack for writing catchy tunes — just count all the hit tunes he wrote — and there is something to be said for longevity. Lennon died at the age of 40 (he was murdered), and Harrison died of cancer when he was 58. McCartney has avoided either fate — thus far — but I'll be darned if he doesn't still look a bit boyish.
He doesn't look as boyish as he did when, in his early 50s, he appeared on Saturday Night Live and was interviewed by Chris Farley.
That's been nearly 20 years ago, and it is the first thing that comes to my mind now when I think of McCartney.
In the skit, Farley played a rather clumsy TV host who was interviewing McCartney and asking him questions like "Remember when you were with the Beatles? That was awesome!"
Farley kept chastising himself after every question, and McCartney constantly reassured him that "You're doing great."
(Perhaps my favorite part of that interview was when Farley asked McCartney about the rumor that the phrase "Paul is dead" could be heard if a Beatles record was played backward. "That was a hoax, right?" Farley asked.
(And McCartney replied, "Yeah, I wasn't really dead.")
But what started out as a lame interview (for comic purposes, of course) gained some redemption at the end when Farley asked McCartney, "Remember when you were in the Beatles? And you did that album Abbey Road, and at the very end of the song, it goes, 'And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make?' Is that true?"
McCartney replied, "In my experience, it is. I find, the more you give, the more you get."
Farley turned to the camera and mouthed the word, "AWESOME!"
OK, I'll admit it. The knowledge that it has been 30 years since John Belushi died is disconcerting.
I do feel older — but not for the obvious reason.
You'd have to call Belushi a force of nature, I think. No other phrase really does him justice.
I am an adjunct professor in the local community college, and most of the students with whom I work are in the traditional college age range. Memories of Belushi are relics from my college days, not theirs.
In order to have more than a fleeting memory of Belushi when he was re–defining TV comedy on Saturday Night Live, a person would have to be in his/her 40s — at least.
I have worked with a few of those — but not many and none this semester.
Most of the people who would have watched him in his SNL and Not–Ready–for–Prime–Time days had to have been old enough to be allowed to stay up late on a weekend night.
Even with unusually permissive parents, anyone under 10 probably won't have enough stamina to stay awake that late. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is usually weak.
Consequently, I assume that you had to be at least a certain age then to have any memory of John Belushi now.
I was in high school at the time so staying up late on weekends was not an issue for me — and I remember his most classic routines — the Samurai warrior (and his variety of Western occupations), the Blues Brothers, the King Bee, his spot–on impersonation of British rocker Joe Cocker, his obese Elizabeth Taylor being interviewed by a starstruck Bill Murray on Weekend Update (and nearly choking on a turkey leg), his takeoff on Beethoven, his contributions to skits featuring the Coneheads and the Land Shark.
Those were the days (well, I guess nights would be more appropriate than days).
Thoughts of his Point/Counterpoint segments with Jane Curtin on Weekend Update never fail to bring a smile to my lips — if not an outright laugh. I still crack up whenever I see his impersonation of Bill Shatner as Capt. Kirk.
I always liked his "little chocolate doughnuts" commercial — in which he played an Olympic athlete who claimed, with a smoldering cigarette in one hand, that little chocolate doughnuts had been part of his training regimen since he was a child.
When the country was more or less familiar with him from his Saturday Night Live years, he embarked on a movie career that was short but no less entertaining.
I guess most people remember "The Blues Brothers" when they think of Belushi's movies, but I think first of "Animal House" — and Belushi's somewhat twisted take on Pearl Harbor.
The guy was just funny, no matter what he did. I honestly think he could have come out on stage and read the New York metro phone book and the audience would have been in stitches.
And then I think of that day 30 years ago today — when I heard that the laughter had died.
I was in college. It was spring break. The country was struggling economically, jobs were hard to find. It wasn't a great time to be getting out of college, but it still seemed like a wonderful time to be young and free and alive. The news of Belushi's death cast an enormous shadow over everything, at the time and ever since.
There were, of course, the recriminations, as there always are — the accusations, the investigations, the charges and trials. Books were written. Life went on.
But just think of all that we missed.
What a gift it was to make people laugh as easily as Belushi did — and what an appalling waste it was to lose him so soon.
Thirty years without Belushi. It wasn't fair to him — or us.
It has been 45 years since Star Trek made its debut on American television.
The series lasted only three seasons, but I've always felt that its cancellation in 1969 accelerated its elevation to the iconic status it has enjoyed for nearly half a century.
Star Trek aired its last episode only a short time before Americans walked on the moon for the first time — arguably the peak of public fascination with space exploration. But the fascination with the series' concept (which creator Gene Roddenberry once described as a " 'Wagon Train' to the stars") never seemed to wear off.
It spawned popular movies and new TV series with new characters, even after Roddenberry's death in 1991. By that time, it was known within the industry simply as "the franchise," a sure moneymaker and ratings grabber.
Since the mid–20th century, there have been many TV series that have been good, but relatively few have influenced the culture to the extent that Star Trek has.
Who, for example, has never spoken of "boldly go[ing] where no man has gone before?" But how many people know that line was taken from a White House booklet on space exploration that was written during the Eisenhower administration almost a decade before the show's inaugural episode aired on Sept. 8, 1966?
Or, for that matter, who has not urged a friend or relative to "live long and prosper" while flashing Spock's Vulcan hand signal?
And phrases like "Beam me up" became part of the popular language.
I was quite young when the show was on the air. In fact, my family had just acquired its first television, and, as small children are wont to do, I suppose, I gravitated to cartoons and sitcoms during those days.
I was really too young when Star Trek was on the air to appreciate its deeper meanings, but, since the original series was canceled, I have often wondered if, perhaps, the influence of Star Trek was as great as it was because it was so inclusive.
The 1960s are often remembered as a time of societal awakening to racial and sexual injustice, but it was rare when television truly mirrored society. If you go back and look at the series that were on the air at the time, there were relatively few that had episodes that addressed such sensitive topics, let alone had regular casts that were as diverse as the one on Star Trek.In 2011, people are accustomed to the idea of seeing programs with predominantly black or Spanish–speaking casts or programs in which women are the lead characters, but in the mid–1960s, significant roles for performers who weren't white and male were few and far between.
They were so rare, in fact, that, when a show featured a lead character who wasn't white and/or male (i.e., Julia or I Spy) it drew attention not for the talents of the writers and the stars but for presenting the reality of an evolving and changing society.
In a way, I guess, the 45th birthday of Star Trek is really the 45th birthday of the arrival of more ethnically diverse entertainment in America. That seems to have been part of Roddenberry's vision. He told network executives that he wanted an adventure series set in space, but he told friends he was going to seek another level — one of providing some kind of a morality tale in every episode.
And, to a great extent, he succeeded.
He did so well, in fact, that he may have inspired not only an enormously successful line of movies and TV series but also, perhaps, the greatest number of parodies in entertainment history.
I've always suspected that the writers for Frasier were Star Trek fans. They often found ways to work in Star Trek references — including in the passion of supporting character and "Trekkie" Noel, who was fluent in Klingon even though it is a fictional language from a fictional civilization.
In a truly memorable episode of Frasier, Noel (who was revealed at the time to be both Jewish and fluent in Hebrew) agreed to help Frasier recite a blessing in Hebrew for his half–Jewish son's bar mitzvah but decided instead to make the translation in Klingon when he felt Frasier had failed to uphold his end of their deal.
Perhaps the best parody came in the early days of Saturday Night Live, when John Belushi played Capt. Kirk and Chevy Chase played Spock.
I suppose Star Trek's unique role in entertainment history made it an open target for parodies.
Eleven years ago — on Dec. 12, 1998 — Saturday Night Live aired its ninth (and funniest) presentation of "Delicious Dish," a parody of public radio programs.
On that night, the "hosts" — Margaret–Jo McCullen (played by Ana Gasteyer) and Teri Rialto (played by Molly Shannon) — interviewed a baker named Pete Schweddy (played by guest host Alec Baldwin), who extolled the virtues of his holiday balls.
And that opened the door for all sorts of sexual double entendres, which prompted some people to denounce SNL for not showing the proper reverence for the Christmas season.
Be that as it may, if one believes in God (and that Jesus was his son), it follows — logically — that God gave people a sense of humor — and that laughter was God's gift to humanity as well.
So watch the skit again. Enjoy it. Don't feel guilty about laughing.
I got my bachelor's degree in journalism from the University of Arkansas, and I got my master's degree in journalism from the University of North Texas. Most of my adult life has been dedicated to writing and editing in one form or another. Most recently I have taught writing (news and developmental) as an adjunct journalism professor at Richland College, where I advise the student newspaper staff. Go, Thunderducks!
