Wednesday, June 08, 2005
...Not To Be
It's always a sad day when the world gets just a little less hot. I'm not talking about the inevitable oncoming ice age, I'm talking about the fact that Anne Bancroft died yesterday.
If there's anything I've learned in my 31 years on this earth it's that you should never rub your eyes after dicing jalapeños. More related to the point of this post, I've also learned that there's a finite amount of hotness in this world, especially full grown, vine-ripened, round-hipped hotness that glows brighter and brighter with age. Anne Bancroft, I always thought, was living defiance of the stupid cliché that women don't age as well as men. Every time I saw her (the last time was on the Producers episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm) she actually looked better. By my reckoning if only she had lived to be roughly 150 years old, she would have been more hot than any human being ever born. Think about that. It's basic math, people.
But alas, now she is gone and there's one less hot older woman to admire. Now if anything happens to Blythe Danner in the short term, I may have to injure myself. She should be locked in a vacuum-sealed vault under 24 hour armed guard like the national treasure she is. We've already lost Anne Bancroft and we can't afford to take any chances.
OK, maybe Anne Bancroft was never quite a Blythe Danner and it's just possible that my opinion of Ms. Bancroft is colored by the fact that the first movie I ever saw her in centered around her being willfully sexually accessible, but that's not all. She gave us hope. She, the glamorous piece of Hollywood tail, was married for 41 years to a loudmouth short guy who made his living off dick and fart jokes. If Anne Bancroft could marry Mel Brooks, there was hope for troglodyte desk-chained writer types everywhere.
It was the mild precursor to the Ultimate Example, to the wide attractiveness gulf between Ric Ocasek and Paulina Porizkova in the 1980s. Without the primer of Anne Bancroft-Mel Brooks, the shock of the Ocasek-Porizkova coupling, I believe, would have killed us all.
So Anne Bancroft, the world owes you a debt of gratitude. Your willingness to have regular sex with Mel Brooks may very well have saved us all. Thank you and goodbye.
This post on the Narcissus Scale: 2.5
PS: I know the proper thing would have been to reference that Simon & Garfunkel song with which she was associated, but part of the point of this post was to butch it up a little after so many days in a row of some very very gay material here in the Bucket. I just couldn't afford to have it all ruined by allusions to pussified two-part-harmony-singing folkies. Plus, if I hear/see/read "Here's to you, Mrs. R______n" one more time, I'm going to have to shoot my TV, Elvis-style.
PPS: My favorite "No Fucking Shit, Dumbass" headline of the week = Prison would prove tough if Jackson convicted. I think the only people who really get what's coming to them in prison are child molesters.
PPPS: I found a picture. Enjoy my right-ness.