Top Ten Reasons David Letterman’s Ratings Suck on the Forest Moon of Endor
Posted on | August 8, 2010 | 35 Comments
“Broken-Down Old Man Perving on Zooey Deschanel” really seems to bother Ace of Spades.
The thing is, before the sexual harassment stuff made headlines, I’d always thought of Letterman’s hubba-hubba routine with female guests (e.g., famously, Drew Barrymore) as a sort of ironic sarcasm thing. But the geezerly nudge-wink ceased to be funny after we discoverd that Letterman’s been shagging the office help since . . . well, forever.
What bugs me about Letterman is therefore, apparently, something different than what bugs Ace. Circumspection and subtlety have never been part of my shtick but — as Ace often says, when threatening to bring out the ban-hammer — there’s a line, and I know where it is.
Or at least I like to think I know where the line is.
When reckless irresponsibility is part of your shtick, sometimes you cross the line without intending to cross the line and offend people you didn’t mean to offend. But I certainly understand that the whole Rule 5 hubba-hubba “National Offend a Feminist Week” routine would not work — neither as humor nor as a running critique of political correctness – if I were actually a philandering womanizer.
My frequent references to Mrs. Other McCain (“she’s got a kitchen full of knives and I’ve got to sleep sometime“) are a humorous allusion to a serious reality. When I flew back from Vegas a couple weeks ago, after having been a wee bit reckless at the roulette wheel, Mrs. Other McCain was so mad at me she wouldn’t even pick me up at the airport. She was so mad, in fact, she honestly didn’t care whether I came home or not. It was one of the most awful feelings of my life.
Remember, she met me when I was making $275 a week as the sports editor of a twice-weekly paper in a Georgia carpet-mill town you never heard of. She only married me because I promised her the sun, the moon and the stars, and I’d have never amounted to anything had it not been for (a) my determination to fulfill that promise and (b) having a sensible wife who supplies the necessary caution to balance my wild-eyed impulsiveness. When I was scrambling to find a way home from the airport a couple of weeks ago, I wasn’t just feeling heartbroken over the possible loss of her superfine sexiness, but also facing a potentially shattering blow to my entire self-concept.
Another pathetic middle-aged divorced guy? Not me.
No sir: One life, one wife.
A major reason guys become that pathetic middle-aged divorced stereotype is because, to quote the immortal poetry of Kitty Wells, “too many times, married men think they’re still single.”
Or as is more often the case, they convey that impression by employing a timeworn lie: “My wife doesn’t understand me.”
Girls, if a married guy ever throws that line on you, run — don’t walk — in the opposite direction. Preferably, after you’ve thrown a drink in the guy’s face.
My running joke is that I can resist anything except temptation, and one way to avoid temptation is by making clear to any woman who might appear interested in me that (a) I’m a happily married father of six, and (b) Mrs. Other McCain understands me completely, which makes it all the more miraculous that she didn’t dump me years ago.
All of that is by way of explaining my grievance against David Letterman: His habitual womanizing requires me to issue this disclaimer that my hubba-hubba jokes are merely jokes. And if you have to explain a joke, it kind of spoils the funny.
Well, this brings me back around to Ace of Spades.
Ace is not married, so why is he so creeped out by Letterman perving on Zooey what’s-her-name? Probably because of those old stereotypes about Ewoks and ”intergenerational romance.”

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