Despite my warp-speed intellectual curiosity and dazzling green-hazel eyes (which have seen more undergarments seesaw than a Frederick's of Hollywood changing room), I've never actually maintained that I'm all-knowing. I don't claim to have all the answers like Paul Rudd or Dame Loni Anderson do. Or understand what mystic, physical machinations allow the sun to revolve around our big blue marble. Or how this shit happened. I don't even know if I was birthed via C-Section or the way my mother told me I emerged--through the lower 1/2 of her alimentary canal.
I know what you're thinking and, yes, I am a certifiable Shaman of the Genital Arts, but that does not mean that I know all. Chin up there, friends. I still do okay.
That all said, I am unwilling to put my full faith and credit behind the existence of any hateful deity that would allow this ruinous dramatic offering to fester like a dripping boil on His otherwise wondrous creation.
When Mindy pleaded each week for Mork to safely descend that goalpost, I, even at a mere 7 years old, knew the right answer: Jump, Mork, you witless, Pam Dawber-deflowering carbuncle. You dimply, backward-aging troll from the bowels of our galaxy.
God, if you are there, I'd like a second penis. I also implore you (or anyone else you feel is up for it) to fly backward around the earth and make this manic goblin disappear from the human consciousness.
Then our world would be down one hirsute alien with more Vicodin flowing through his veins than life-sustaining green blood. And we'd be sixpence all the richer.
Die, Mork from Ork, die.
Orson this,
Denny DelVecchio
2 comments:
one of the alltime best shows of 70s. give me my mork.
Orson was Orson Wells. Little known fact.
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