It is DEVASTATION.
The last few days have been terrible. There is a black curtain over my television, there is a pall over my TiVo. There has been sniffling and the smell of BenGay. Someone left a casserole and a TV Guide on my doorstep. Thank you, whoever you are.
Bea Arthur is dead. I’m five seconds away from reciting that poem from Four Weddings and a Funeral, the one from that other “splendid bugger”, the one about stopping the clocks and silencing the dog with a big, juicy bone (I can’t even smirk about “bone”). I will recite it in a heavy Scottish accent and fully depress Hugh Grant, enough so that he tries to marry Duck Face when really he could’ve just married Fiona and WE ALL WOULD HAVE BEEN HAPPY.
The Fug Girls posted a lovely Bea tribute, including this video which Beal will fully appreciate. I’m going back to bed.