And Then There Were Three

Not long ago I heard Morgan Freeman had been in a car crash—and the presence in said crash of a lady friend spurred the revelation of his divorce, which had been kept out the media spotlight.


Didn’t he play God in Bruce Almighty and Evan Almighty? I guess it’s time for the Catholic Church to update its stance on divorce.

Then last week, we found out that Chris Kattan, best (only?) known from his role on Saturday Night Live, has filed for legal separation from his wife, whom he married in late June and split from on August 10. Yes, you read that right—the filings show that the lovebirds separated a mere six weeks and one day after their nuptials.

For those of you not keeping track, that’s about five and a half weeks longer than the theater runs of Kattan's big-screen showings, Corky Romano and A Night at the Roxbury.

Combined.

They say that celebrity deaths come in threes. The mysterious “they” are full of crap, naturally, but the oddity of the next event makes me wonder whether they will now make similar claims about failed celebrity marriages.

The third one is a doozie: Phil Collins has settled his divorce with his third wife, Orianne Cevey, in which he paid her 25 million pounds (almost 50 million dollars). That’s more than Sir Paul McCartney shelled out to Heather Mills earlier this year.

Maybe it’s a form of karmic retribution for the ex-Genesis singer—who, after meeting Cevey in the mid-1990s, infamously communicated by fax with his second wife about their divorce.

Note to Phil: Be careful with #4. The royalties on your ’80s hits can barely keep up with your breakup payouts.

A Saucy Call

If you’re like most people, you can remember plenty of situations when you wish a police officer had been nearby.

Maybe you watched someone steal a purse and run away into the crowd. It’s possible a car ran a red light in front of you. Or perhaps something more serious befell you, and you witnessed battery, arson, or murder.

Whatever it was, feel free to imagine yourself getting so upset at the wrong you had witnessed that you called 911 right away for emergency assistance.

That’s exactly what Reginald Jackson of Jacksonville, Florida did earlier this month when he suffered an offense so dreadful, so heinous, that he felt compelled to call the police:

His sandwich had no sauce.

So he dialed 911 … and then dialed again to protest officers’ slow response to his “emergency.”

Off the top of my head, I can think of several things more worthy of a 911 call than a sauceless sandwich:

The announcement that Britney Spears probably will perform at this year’s MTV Video Music Awards.

Brett Favre’s legacy-tainting return to the NFL.

Hilary Clinton having her name placed in nomination at the Democratic convention—after conceding the race two months ago.

China’s use of underage gymnasts in the Olympics.

David Amulet, R.I.P.?

In just over three years, this blog has offered more than 200 posts and—with only a few exceptions—has been more fun than I expected.

It’s also been taken precious time away from paying clients while becoming (I suspect) decreasingly entertaining for you as I’ve put less time and energy into each posting.

I started this site as a venue to practice different humor writing tricks. And you have been a wonderful audience, allowing me to see how an unbiased set of readers reacts to varied angles on things. Looking back, as objectively as I can, most of my early posts weren’t too bad.

Over time, however, I’ve found myself slipping into posting for the sake of posting, putting things up that have little imagination or purpose.

And I hate blogs like that.

So I need your help while I’m away for the next ten days on vacation.

Although I’ve seen many bloggers come and go since July 2005, some of you have been blogging as long as I have—and a few of you have been at it even longer. Assuming that you lack rich uncles paying you for your efforts, how have you kept going?

Let me know what keeps your fires burning. It just may rekindle mine.