SHAWN: Hey dude! I just pulled off a wicked noseslide followed by a laser flip! Aww, yeah, they just put in a new quarter pipe at the skate park and I’m ripping to try my new board over there. That’s right, dude, there’s no better joy than a skate park. NOSEBLUNT! All the land put aside just for freestyle antics. It’s the kind of thing you dream about—something they’d only have in Heaven or San Diego or Cleveland. Dude, dude, dude…DUDE! What do you think life was like for us before skate parks? Remember when we used to bank off the curb? Tommy never looked the same after he flipped into the street and his head got run over and he died. Remember Tommy? He was a good dude. JAPAN GRAB—NO WAY, DUDE! Thanks to skate parks, we can skate freely and safely and smoke up behind the vert ramp without those damn kids catching us. GRIND! Fucking awesome, dude! And look at those old people over there at the retirement community, just waiting to die. I bet they wish they could get big air like us. McTWIST! Suckers.

RYAN: Japan grabs? Noseblunts? I don’t know what those mean, but I’m sure it’s code for drugs and other tom foolery. You punks can have your skate parks. I’d rather be enjoying life to the fullest at a retirement community anyways. Yes, ma’am, retirement community living is the best living of all. Despite what you might think, in all your youthful ignorance, retirement communities are not a place where we elderly go to die—that’s Florida. It’s a place for elderly folk like me to live it up without having to bear the burden of cooking, cleaning, or really doing anything but having nonstop fun. We’ve got bingo twice a day everyday. There’s plenty of television sets surrounded by lots of good, comfortable sitting chairs. Everyday at 3pm, they come around with little paper cups filled with candy. And don’t even get me started on the 4pm buffet dinners! It’s like going to Old Country Buffet every day, except you don’t have to deal with degenerates like you or tipping—two of my biggest pet peeves. Plus, the chicks here are just dying to have sex. Just last week, Gladys Perkins gave me a little hand action under the table at bingo. Oh, oh, oh, 0-73!!

SHAWN: Hey, Grandpa, that bingo sounds like a blast. I mean, really. Just a blast. I’m glad to hear you’re still getting a little action now and again—besides when your EKG speeds up to “animate”—but a little hand action under the table ain’t got shit on a clusterfuck in the middle of a public park. They don’t call it a funbox for nothing. I feel a little sorry for you, dude, that your idea of exhilaration is Old Country Buffet. You enjoy your third helping of corn; I’ll egg plant off this half-pipe. Some fucking wind in my hair and SHIT DUDE, WAS THAT AN M-80 KICKFLIP? That’s professional shit right there. PROFESSIONAL SHIT! If your old folks home ain’t the place you go to die, why’s there an ambulance parked outside daily? Sure, you could say the same about the skate park, but that’s because we’re really LIVING, man. BEANPLANT! I will give you those paper cups filled with candy, though. Dude, I know exactly what you’re talking about. A couple pieces of those and a Godzilla flip at the stairset and holy shit my gums are bleeding. This rocks!

RYAN: There’s an ambulance parked outside cause we old people spend all day partying like it’s VE-Day. Sitting. Dancing. Bingo marathons. More sitting. Fucking. With so much to do at any given moment, accidents are inevitable. Especially with our hips, which many have already had replaced two or three times. But we won’t let that, or any of our other many medical problems, slow us down. Not when we’ve got so much living left to do. Wilson Murphy and I were just talking about going down to the park to do some outdoor sitting, so don’t waste your time feeling sorry for me. If anything, I feel sorry for you. You’re just a clueless punk jumping around on your wheelie board like you don’t have a care in the world. That might be true now, but in another 10 years your shoulders will be slumped from responsibility, your hair will have fallen out from stress, and your heartbeat will be irregular from the Mountain Dews, Slim Jims, Taco Bells, and all that other garbage you put in your body. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You should be happy that you’re even able to waste all your time turning tricks in a park like some cheap whore. Back in my day, we didn’t have that luxury. We were too busy stopping Hitler in World War II. What have you done?

SHAWN: What have I done? Clearly, you didn’t have your hearing aid in when you got word of that time I flawlessly executed a 90-foot Willy grind on the 100-foot banister outside The Flow. Wait—I’ll put that in language you can understand, dude. Clearly, ye was not heralded of thine fame when thine earned perfection from…oh, look, you just discovered fire, you old bat. You probably didn’t understand what it was that those “daggum kids” were up to when they were “setting sail” for the “New World” either. And you were a young, ripe 64 at the time—you vixen, you. CABALLERIAL!  At least you’re just as energetic as you always were, especially with all that excite-o-rama you’re doing. I mean, sitting? That’s like the pole jam of retirement community tricks. Do you ever think about taking a break from your heart actually beating to calm down with a game of checkers? Or will all that back-and-forth increase your blood pressure and loosen your bowels again? METHOD AIR! Call me a clueless punk if you want, but you’re just jealous of this, old man. In 10 years I’ll probably just be the president of my dad’s stupid asphalt company, making six figures a year. That’s what you get from social security, right? Dude—and DON’T diss the Taco Bell just because you’re not allowed red meat or chewing. And I’ll end this with my favorite skate trick. ALL-MY-FRIENDS-AREN’T-DYING-OF-CANCER 360!

RYAN: Willy grind? The Flow? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know who you think you are, but you are most assuredly not him, her, or whatever sex you’re supposed to be—I can’t even tell nowadays with how long you kids wear your hair. You spend your days at some skate park paid for by my taxes, the least you could do is show some respect. You Tony-what’s-his-name wannabes think you’re the bees knees. Ha! You wish. You’re nothing now, and in 10 years, you’ll still be nothing. The only difference being you’ll be running your father’s company into the ground instead of your unhelmeted head after so many failed “method air” attempts. And guess what: I’ll be there to laugh at you. Oh, what, you think in 10 years I’m going to be dead? Wrong. Dead wrong. Well, maybe not dead wrong. But with this here retirement community, I’ve got an entire staff of nurses, orderlies, and former convicts catering to my every need, making sure I keep living. Need help turning over in bed? Ring the bell. Need help getting to the bathroom? Ring the bell. Can’t remember where you put your pants? Ring the bell. Hey, I’ve got a trick for you and your slacker friends to try out. It’s called getting a job.

Next On Danger Queue: Heads vs. Tails—A Coin Toss Never Felt So Good

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RYAN: Did you see that? Ms. Kane County, the runner-up in the Ms. Northern Illinois regional beauty pageant, just waved at me! Waved. At me. Wow. I think I need to sit down for a minute. No, Ryan. Sit down and you’ll miss the rest of this kickass parade. From the looks of this crowd, I’d say nobody in town wanted to miss it. I can’t say I blame them. Parades are unquestionably better than anything else you can name off the top of your head. Most people already love standing still and watching, so it only makes sense to march people past them in an organiz—Hey, look, it’s Boy Scout Troop 90! Wow. I buy my buckets of popcorn from that kid. Jimmy! Jimmy! It’s me! …Incredible. Did that really just happen? Sometimes, after a particularly breathtaking parade, I lay awake at night and wonder about the first parade. Did everyone there know they were witnessing history? They had to, right? All the marching. All the waving. People must have immediately known that parades were magical. If heaven really does exist, I bet they have parades going on every day. But it’s a good thing they don’t have parades every day down here, otherwise I’d ne—HOLY FUCK! Look there! It’s Kane County Regional Superintendent of Education Douglas E. Johnson! Doug! Did you get my letters?? DOUG!!

SHAWN: Did you see that? No? What? YOU MISSED IT! Oh God, no—whatever will you do? If only there was some kind of device that could freeze time and allow you to go back and see exactly what it is you missed…wait. There is! It’s called a TiVo and it’s the most important invention since panty hose. In your defense of parades, one fear seemed to permeate every word—missing out. Imagine being able to watch Doug Johnson wave at you over and over again in slow-motion? Or to see his bodyguard tackle you to the ground whenever you want? You can have that and more with TiVo. This scrappy device will change the way you watch television…FOREVER for a while! No longer do the chains of network oppression have to weigh you down. Got plans Tuesday night? Fine. Dancing with the Stars will still be there when you get home. Meanwhile, parades take up your entire Sunday afternoons and when you try to make them fun with a little drinky drink and stabby stab, they go ahead and shut them down (I’m look at you, Southside Chicago). Screw that. Parades are way better when you can fast-forward past the Broadway numbers, High School Musical float, and Matt Lauer and get straight to the good stuff: college cheerleaders. And don’t even get me started on commercials, whatever those are.

RYAN: Freezing time and going back? Woah, there, John Locke, let’s reel things back a little bit. Maybe that little black box let’s you mess with the space/time continuum on your television, but that doesn’t carry over to the real world. But that technology is great, even if it’s just for television. Now indecisive people like you constantly plagued by regrets don’t have to choose between “plans” and Dancing With The Stars. Though I don’t know if watching reruns of My Name Is Earl on another channel really counts as plans. Me, I don’t waste my time on regrets. I make my choice and stick to it. When I go to a parade, I’m not thinking about what TV show I might be missing out on. If a TV show was worth watching, then I’d stay home and watch it.  But no TV show could ever be better than a parade, unless maybe that show was about parades, but even then I’d still rather go to one than watch it on TV. There’s so much the cameras can’t pick up. The energy. The suspense. No, I have to soak that all up in person. And seeing it one time is more than enough for me. I suppose I could record it and then watch Doug Johnson wave at me over and over, but that would cheapen the memory. If for whatever reason I want to relive that, then I’ll just go to the old filing cabinets in the brain. Yep, there it is. Third drawer down. Right next to the memory of the time I pooped my pants in kindergarten. Hmmmm…thought I repressed that one. Guess not.

SHAWN: No TV show could be better than a parade? You, my plucky friend, have clearly never heard of a little show called Hole in the Wall. Or American Gladiators. Or sports. Or Help I’m a Celebrity Get Me Outta Here. Or Saturday Night Live (excluding the ’80-’87 and ’05-’07 seasons). Or Lost. Or pornography. Or Chuck. Or Moving Up. Or Denver the Last Dinosaur. Or Family Matters. Or Sabado Gigante. Or House. Or The Office. Or Mr. Belvedere. Or How I Met Your Mother. Or The Simpsons. Or Captain Morgan’s Saturday Night Disco Party. Or Dexter. Shall I go on? Shall I, Mr. Parade? Yeah, the real world’s great and all, but would you rather watch an Ohio State soon-to-be flunkout drop another baton, or watch Locke stab Naomi over and over? That’s what I thought. But no, no, it’s okay: you keep reliving your parades in your memory. Is that in high-def? And, hey, it’s your memory, so maybe Doug Johnson does more than wave. What parades do you go to that leave you excited, rather than tediously hoping it’s over halfway through the third hour? I wonder what you can do at a parade when you get bored…well, besides sit in a corner and poop your pants (that wasn’t kindergarten and you know it). When I’m bored with TiVo, I’ll just go ahead and stream a Netflix directly onto my television. Yeah, it does that too.

RYAN: Yeah, you would use your TiVo to stream a Netflix video to your TV when you get bored. God forbid you ever stop basking in the warm glow of your television set and actually go somewhere, meet someone, and do something. Oh, but you are doing something, that’s right. You’re watching Dexter try to get himself out of another sticky situation. You only missed that cause you were too busy watching a morbidly obese man in a silver jumpsuit trying to squeeze himself through a narrow hole in a fast-approaching wall, which you had to record cause it was on at the same time as the episode of Family Matters where Urkel, Eddie, and Carl go ice fishing. Can’t you see TiVo is destroying us? It’s all an endless loop, recording shows you missed cause you were busy watching a show you recorded. For the record, only two of the shows you listed are unquestionably great (not counting pornography cause it’s not on TV, except for the 15 seconds it comes on channel 1 at 1:30 in the morning). All the other ones are canceled, on the verge of being canceled, or long overdue in being canceled. Yes, a parade or two have been canceled before, but that was either because of hurricane-like rain or because a few (hundred) drunks forgot the true spirit of parades. It’s not about throwing on a green shirt and getting all liquored up at 7 in the morning. It’s about celebrating the hard work of everyone in town, from the local Boy Scout troop to the old man who gets re-elected to the county board cause it’s his only reason to live.

SHAWN: I’m sorry, but did you just imply there’s something wrong with basking in the glow of Urkel successfully saving a 400-lb. walrus (Carl) from subzero frozen waters? Or Aunt Rachel crawling along a clothesline to save drunk Urkel from falling off the side of a building? Or whatever happened to Little Richie? Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with instilling values like risking your life to save a mild acquaintance. And I’m insulted that you think I don’t go out much, what with my deep tan. The TiVo doesn’t control me; I control it. That’s its magic. You tell it what you like, give it a few commands, and it follows through. Plus, you may come home one night and it’ll be all, “Hey, Ryan, I noticed you kept setting me to tape Yo Gabba Gabba and Manhunt, even when they’re reruns. Yeah, it’s curious, but based on those suggestions, I thought you might like this PBS documentary on fetishes.” And, sure enough, that’s exactly what you wanted to watch that night. Well done, TiVo. But, hey, if you’re not up for the documentary, you can delete it. No need to sit through boring shit like the old man on the county board or the local high school’s new second-string jazz quartet when you just want to see the giant light-up turkey. You don’t need to patronize your TiVo, so why patronize Doug Johnson? This is 2009: we have the technology to skip to the awesome parts, so why bother with the Boy Scout troop? Oh, wait, I see why you like parades…

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SHAWN: Man, one world is nice. But, hey, you know what would be cooler? Two worlds! Although I guess that would mean twice the war, famine, swine flu, and Two and a Half Man. Yuck. That’s like Five Men. Wait! I have the solution. What if someone could be the BEST of both worlds? Because I know just the blonde virgin to be it! Her name’s Hannah Montana and she’s half rock chick, half the daughter of an alcoholic male version of Toni Basil, all awesome. Her movie’s like the biggest hit this year for teen girls age 8-17 and adult males age 36-50, and the soundtrack’s pretty much the biggest selling CD since the MP3 revolution (little girls don’t understand modern science). Clearly, she’s struck a nerve in this great country—a nerve that wants a sub-par singer to be autotuned into fame and fortune beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. Just give up now and admit it: you want to be her. Chillin’ with friends, putting on a show, coming home to your Scrooge McDuck vault of money for a swim—that’s not just the best of both worlds; that’s the best of them all. Yeah, ALL the worlds.

RYAN: Excuse me for not jumping all over the latest Disney bandwagon craze. Past experiences with Lindsay Lohan and Hillary Duff taught me these singing Disney stars all have expiration dates. Right around the time they turn legal. In 5 years, when Hannah Montana will have been long gone, most likely the result of a sex tape scandal, Butte, Montana will still be here. A quaint town in the big country state we all know as Montana, Butte’s much more than just a funny sounding town. It’s not plagued with the big city corruption like so many other places in this country. It’s a place where you can walk the streets, say ‘hi’ to the local shopkeeps, and drink a beer in public. That’s some good living right there, that’s what that is. Butte must be doing something right, as it’s been home to many famous stars who have gone on to do way more than put on a wig and lip sync in front of a bunch of hysterical preteens. Stars like Montana Taylor, Keith Jardine, and even the electrifying Evel Knievel. Yeah. Evel Knievel, he who jumped the Snake River Canyon. Has Hannah Montana ever done anything like that?

SHAWN: You know, you say Disney stars turning legal is their expiration date, but you still have that calendar on your wall counting down the days until all three Jonas Brothers are 18. Curious. And, sure, Disney stars expire like a fine milk, but they find things to do afterwards—Hillary Duff campaigns for gay rights, while Lohan sets the entire movement back 20 years. Both productive! Seriously, though, isn’t it better to rock and make a gazillion dollars than to have never at all? Yeah, there’s nothing about Butte, Montana I’m jealous about except its sexy name. Evel Knievel? Really? The only hit he ever had was that time he didn’t make it over that empty pool on his motorcycle. Hannah’s got hits coming out of her firm, jailbait ass: The Climb! True Friend! Just a Girl! Wikipedia is a Registered Trademark of the Wikimedia Foundation! That last one’s so catchy. And you can drink beer outside anywhere, Butte: it’s called alcoholism and it’s all over.

RYAN: My Jonas Brothers countdown isn’t in anticipation of their legality; it’s in anticipation of them disappearing from the spotlight, fingers crossed, forever. Look, Disney knows how to create a good product that introduces kids to that tingly feeling in their privates. Kudos to them. But let’s stop pretending these “celebrities” are going to be around forever. Maybe Butte, Montana doesn’t have anything you should be jealous of, but it’s got everything you could ever need. A library. The longest running house of prostitution, AND (!!) dozens, if not DOZENS of abandoned mine shafts. And don’t forget the blind eye they turn to consuming alcohol in public. Sure, you could drink beer anywhere if you want to be a raging alcoholic, but for those of us who enjoy things in moderation, then Butte is a little slice of heaven. Where you can drink your beer, or any alcohol for that matter, without worrying about Johnny Lawman getting in your face. You’ve clearly drunken the Hannah Montana Kool-Aid. Not only did you say she “rocks”, but you also implied you’re jealous of her. I don’t know about the teenager part, but there are procedures that can make you into the girl of your dreams.

SHAWN: Really? Your Jonas Brothers countdown is of them going out of the spotlight? Yeah, makes sense when you mark off the days by gluing pictures of them to the dates, drawing hearts around their faces, and then putting on lipstick and lying down with a good Danielle Steele book. Just saying. And clearly you’ve been too blinded by your lust to notice I was jealous of Hannah Montana’s career and cash, not her genitals. Hell, she’s such a great role model, I even feel dirty discussing her genitals. But, seriously, talk about best of both worlds—alcohol on the streets AND dozens of abandoned mine shafts? What could go wrong? Butte sounds like Heaven: a place filled with dead people. Granted, Hannah Montana won’t be around forever—just like those other teen sensations you’ve mentioned who ironically enough are still around—but the point is she’s here with a bang and isn’t a quiet, lifeless town in the middle of nowhere. Maybe I have drunk the Hannah Montana Kool-Aid, but Banana Montana is the greatest flavor since Great Bluedini. But I’m sure people would just flock to the stores for a tasty Butte-flavored beverage, huh?

RYAN: What I do in my free time is between me, my Jonas Brothers calendar, and whoever can see through my bedroom window when I forget to close the curtains. I don’t need criticism from some perverted Hannah Montana wannabe who gets off pounding Butte. You’ve never been to Butte, but all of a sudden you’re talking like you’re an expert. Butte isn’t some lifeless ghost town in the middle of nowhere. It’s a once-thriving town now in decline that just so happens to be in the middle of Montana. Big difference. Maybe it doesn’t have all the flashy cars and fancy clothes that you Hollywood types thrive on, but it does have good, wholesome people with good, wholesome values. People who accept others for who they are. They wouldn’t force some teenage girl to live a lie, running around town in a wig pretending to be someone that she isn’t. What kind of message is that sending to our children? Hey, if you’re not popular and don’t have friends, just put on a wig and pretend to be someone else. Problem solved! No. It doesn’t work that way. Be true to yourself, even if it means you’re destined to be a friendless loser. That’s what I did. And I turned out great. Oh, looks like one more day can be crossed off the calendar. Let me just grab my marker, lipstick, and Danielle Steele book. Mmmmm… yeah… that’s the stuff.

Next On Danger Queue: Parades vs. TiVo—Commentary by The Today Show

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RYAN: Yo, VIP, let’s kick it!

No worries, Vanilla on the scene

Lighting up the stage, know what I mean?

Greatest rapper ever, that’s no bull

With a mic in hand, taking control

What, what, what? You think Vanilla’s plain.

Hells no, punk, just playing the game.

Fly haircuts, Ninja Turtles, VH1 freakouts

that’s just Vanilla building his clout

Fame and fortune, they know me by name

For Vanilla, all just much of the same

Cause Ice be always flowing, always smooth.

Been laying down rhymes for a decade times two.

Bankruptcy, illegal sampling ain’t no more bother

than the shitty last name of my deadbeat father

Even now, Vanilla still be kicking it

When it comes to rapping I’m the shit

Will it ever stop?

Yo, twenty years later, still don’t know

but turn off the lights and he’ll glow

What, what what? Chocolate Rain?

He ain’t got no talent, got no poise

just big ass eyes and a damn deep voice

No, no, no, that don’t make me swoon

His punkass just hit puberty too soon

‘

SHAWN: Chocolate Rain.

Feel the beat and hear it in your brain.

Chocolate Rain.

The best video since dramatic prairie dog.

Chocolate Rain.

This voice worked fine for Rick Astley, bitch.

Chocolate Rain.

Wins Best of youtube awards like music video.

Chocolate Rain.

When’s the last time Vanilla Ice won anything?

Chocolate Rain.

Besides a free drink and crabs from a guy name Shane.

Chocolate Rain.

A twenty-year career doesn’t count if you were only active one.

Chocolate Rain.

Will Ice ever stop? Well, he did in ‘91.

Chocolate Rain.

He’s like Eminem without the charm or sex.

Chocolate Rain.

It’s thrice as catchy as Ice Ice Baby.

Chocolate Rain.

And launches careers like Judd Apatow.

Chocolate Rain.

I’m 26, so back off about puberty.

RYAN: Talk all you want, think you’re so tough

Tit records, CDs, you ain’t got that stuff

My first album, yo,  sold millions of copies

While you still sucked your fat momma’s floppies

Cash, drugs, ladies, they all came my way

You hit on a girl, you only hear  “who’s Tay Zonday?”

Best of youtube, that don’t mean crap

Even shittier than my own ninja rap

Astley, prairie dogs, all them one hit wonders

Find them alongside whacky TV show blunders

I seen your video fool, and I’m not impressed

Cause when I look in a mirror, all I see is the best

You want career launching, go to the source

The first white rapper, Vanilla setting the course

Eminem, go head, give some props to the Ice

Without him you whiter than a side order of rice

Thanks to Vanilla, now the party’s jumping

I never went away, so why you chumpin’

Ain’t no stop, ain’t no quit

Vanilla bringin’ hit after hit

Innovator, originator, I’m all that

Rhymes so lean, mean, none of the fat

Often copied but, yo, unlike any other

Wha, wha, wha, word to your mother.

‘

SHAWN: Chocolate Rain.

You can’t play hit “records” in an iPod.

Chocolate Rain.

I’m an MP3 hit so don’t talk ‘bout fame.

Chocolate Rain.

I’m young and fresh unlike someone else.

Chocolate Rain.

Not signing autographs in Lincoln Park for cash.

Chocolate Rain.

Are you really playing the one-hit wonder card?

Chocolate Rain.

Don’t think you’re on the leading edge, Mr. Ice.

Chocolate Rain.

You were better the first time as DJ Flash.

Chocolate Rain.

Where the fuck are these hits you say?

Chocolate Rain.

It’s about racism not frozen flavored water

Chocolate Rain.

It’s so good I have to move away from the mic to breathe in.

RYAN: You think an mp3 hit makes you number one

You nothing more than a black William Hung

You ain’t made a penny, a nickel, one dolla

Still cruising the block in your rusty impala

Cause your singing’s a joke, a really bad larf

Sucking in air like you about to barf

Move away from the mic so you can breathe in

Step back from the mic cause you can’t sing

Vanilla’s for real, that ain’t no joke

Didn’t ya hear i overdosed on coke

Thuggin’ and chuggin’, grew up on the streets

Only thing I ever known is laying down beats

Black man from Minnesota, red flags go up

You no gangsta, you just a lil pup

In over his head, no idea what to do

I’m a veteran, yo, bout to turn forty-two

Ice, Ice, Baby, man, that shits hardcore

All about drivebys, hitting the floor

Outrunning the 5-0, fleeing the scene

Shit topped the charts, i rolled in the green

What i got you could never get

That includes all my millions of debt

‘

SHAWN: Chocolate Rain

William Hung never wrote his own holy crap I can’t do this anymore. Maybe Chocolate Rain isn’t a #1 hit in Sweden. Maybe Tay—who you still insist on calling a pup even though he’s like 40—doesn’t have millions of dollars in debt. But dammit, nobody’s deluding him into thinking he’s famous. He’s not hitting up reality TV to claw his ring-laden fingers into the last inch of fame he could possibly have his way with. He’s just a kid who loves music, rain, and a certain popular ice cream flavor. He’s the Brian Fellows of the music world—harmless and a delight. Plus, at least he’s not hiding his rusted impala from the bank. Ice, Ice Baby is about as hardcore as the frat boy who only knows all the words to it to impress chicks, yet quickly realizes he’ll still have to use daddy’s credit card to buy her drinks and date rape her like the original plan. Sorry, Van Winkle, 1990 called—it wants its biggest tool back.

Next On Danger Queue: Hannah Montana vs Butte, Montana—World’s Colliding!

SHAWN: “When I turn my hearing aid up to ten, I can hear a canary break wind in Ft. Lauderdale.” HO HO! That’s the spirit—and that’s the sauce—that makes the Golden Girls so very special. With 7 seasons of Emmy-winning hilarity and spunk, Golden Girls is the kind of TV show that should be cherished forever, no matter what happens to individual cast members. Those four ladies were pimp before pimp was the shit. Blanche the slut, Rose the dumb one, Sophia the old one, and Dorothy the linebacker—you can’t go wrong with that kind of combination! It’s like peanut butter and jelly, Laurel and Hardy, ham and rice. Sure, the show was canceled over 15 years ago, but it lives on today, to this very day, with DVD sales and a gay fan base that makes a Cher concert look like the World Series of Poker. Thank you for being a friend, Golden Girls.

RYAN: It’s a good thing the show still lives on cause the Golden Girls themselves sure aren’t. The Grim Reaper has seen to that. He doesn’t care about Emmys or DVD sales or anything like that. He’s got a job to do, and he does it. With no remorse. It may not be glamorous but it most certainly needs to be done. Now I know you’re on the verge of getting all hysterical and throwing one of those trademark Shawn tantrums cause Bea Arthur is gone now too, but think of it like this: Without the Grim Reaper, the Golden Girls would have faded away into obscurity. In fact, the Grim Reaper is the one making the Golden Girls relevant again. Before last week, the only two people who ever thought about that show was that guy in Toledo who happened to catch the 217th airing of Blanche’s Little Girl on a Saturday afternoon and you, the esteemed president of the Estelle Getty Fan Club on Facebook. But now, well, now, everyone’s talking about Golden Girls again. Just the way Bea, a person whom I have never met, probably would have wanted it.

SHAWN: Yeah, The Grim Reaper sure is taking them down one-by-one, huh? I mean now there’s only…huh, two left. Well, that means the Grim Reaper sure is doing a great job NOT! The Grim Reaper is still outnumbered and last I checked Betty and Rue aren’t going anywhere, unless Rue suddenly succumbs to her wretched case of syphilis, but she’s been going with it for 93 years, so why would it stop her now? And Betty—oh, Betty’s still starring in major motion pictures like The Proposal at the ripe young age of 423. Sure she started the bubonic plague, but she also survived it and 912 wars. Beat that, Reaper. And the Grim Reaper may run around, swathing people with his scythe, but it’s still not as sharp as the Golden Girls’ wit. Remember that one time when Dorothy was finishing up a pop and she was shlucking all the pop from the bottom of the cup—shhhhlllluuuuck—for like five minutes and finally Sophia, her mother, blurts out, “Any wonder I never breastfed her!” Not only is that comedy gold, but it made you envision Bea Arthur’s breasts, which once made the list of the Seven Natural Wonders of the Modern World. Don’t fear the Reaper; the Reaper should fear the Golden.

RYAN: Only two left? ONLY TWO LEFT?!? Are you trying to piss off the Grim Reaper, cause you, sir, are doing a fantastic job. I don’t know who you think you are, but you should watch yourself or you may soon be on the wrong end of his scythe. His DEADLY scythe, at that. But please, don’t be so naive as to think the Grim Reaper is only working the Golden Girls case right now. He’s got a long list of “clients” to meet with. Believe it or not, these clients are not always willing. The Reaper’s been after Amy Winehouse for a good 8 months now, but that crack whore can move fast. I wouldn’t go thinking the same will happen for Betty and Rue. Quick wits and sharp tongues may get you far in the entertainment world, but they can’t make up for the fact that between the two of them they’ve had 7 different hips. But hey, maybe those quick wits can at least help them go out on a high note. Rue can see the Grim Reaper walk through the door, and she can dramatically roll her eyes and be all “Not the gentleman caller I had hoped for.” Ho HO!!! It’s funny cause she lost at love.

SHAWN: Maybe the Goldens don’t need to worry as much as even I thought if the Reaper’s been after Winehouse for 8 months. For the love of God, she’s been scurrying around St. Lucia like Scooby-Doo for two years now—she shouldn’t be that hard to find. And if that drunken beanpole can outrun the Reaper for this long, imagine if she was twice as feisty, twice as saucy, and twice as sober. Plus, everyone knows if Blanche rolled her eyes at the Reaper, he’d be in bed with her faster than you can say, “Hello, sailor.” And Blanche’s HPV-covered genital warts can’t even be stopped by the undead. Hear what I’m saying? Not only do I challenge the Reaper to take on the Goldens, but I suspect, when it comes down to it, the Goldens would win. But even if the Reaper does catch up with Betty and Rue, the show will live on, the laughs will keep coming, and the joy will never die. That’s right, Reaper. We’ve found your one weakness: abstract ideas. Suck it.

RYAN: Amy Winehouse is crafty. Right when you think you got her, she spits in your face, steals your drink, and scampers away on all fours in just the blink of eye. And in the Grim Reaper’s defense, her eyes are so empty and lifeless most people assume she’s already dead (she is on the inside). The Grim Reaper won’t make that same mistake with the last of the Golden Girls. We all know they’re only delaying the inevitible at this point. Death is knocking at the door. No matter what they do, he’s coming in. They can keep trying to hide behind their lovable foilables and funny sounding STDs, but it won’t make a difference. And when the two of them go down, preferrably together, and the entire world is in mourning, everyone’s going to turn their tear-filled eyes on to you, Shawn, and they’re going to ask “Why? Why did you have to be such a dick and call out the Grim Reaper like that? Why did you have to go and take away the last of the Golden Girls from us? Why, Shawn? Why?” I hope you’re ready to deal with that.

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RYAN: If you’re anything like me, then you’re tired of fumbling between utensils at every meal. A spoon to eat my Captain Crunch. A fork to eat my spaghetti. A smaller spoon for the snack pack. Sweet habeus corpus, I just want to eat breakfast already! If only there was a better way. Oh, fancy that, THERE is a better way! It’s called a spork, and it renders all other utensils—spoons, forks, hell, even knives as useless the Virtual Boy sitting on Shawn’s mantle. The concept behind the spork is so simple, yet brimming with unfiltered genius. All the sexy curves of the spoon. All the real world functionality of the fork. It’s the best of both worlds without any of the limitations. There may be other combo untensils trying to piggyback off the spork’s success (I’m looking at you, splayd!), but none of them can match the seamless brilliance of the spork. I don’t watch Star Trek, and never have, but I don’t see KFC handing out a plastic-wrapped Spock with every order.

SHAWN: If I’m anything like you, that also means I must drink like a Baldwin, put ketchup on my bagels, and cry at the end of every episode of Laverne and Shirley. As two of those three are untrue (Squiggy’s a sad soul), I also don’t fumble my utensils—in fact, my astute, Andy Roddick coordination actually allows me to use more than one utensil AT THE SAME MEAL! Yeah, that might sound crazy to you, but I bet there are plenty of people out there who use separate utensils and don’t eat crayons. It doesn’t take a brilliant, logistical Vulcan mind to coordinate one’s food. Clearly, a logistical Vulcan mind is leaps and bounds more impressive than a spork—and, oh, look at that, may I offer Exhibit Awesome? His name is Spock and he is the most brilliant lieutenant commander in the universe. From guiding the Enterprise through enemy star fleets, to struggling to bridge his Vulcan identity with his human emotions, to sacrificing his life to save his crew in The Wrath of Khan and—wha?—RESURRECTING in The Search for Spock, that is one impressive half-human. Not nearly as useless as the spork, or Ryan’s heterosexual porn.

RYAN: More than one utensil at the same meal? I call shenanigans. That’s right. Shenanigans. You don’t have the dexterity or the finger strength to pull off a feat like that. I once saw you try in vain for twenty minutes to open a pack of Dora the Explorer fruit snacks. But that’s beside the point. Whether or not you, or anyone for that matter, has the superhuman ability to wield a spoon and fork at one time, the point is you no longer have to. With a spork, you get the same results of a fork and spoon minus all the frustration and effort. Going between the soup and salad at Olive Garden has never been easier. It doesn’t take one of those logistical Vulcan minds to see the benefit of that. Really though, for all of Spock’s supposed intelligence, then why is he still getting his haircuts at Supercuts? Seriously. Can someone on the Enterprise get him some molding clay or talk to him about layers? No wonder he’s stuck as a lieutenant commander. The only thing he could captain is the couch in the psychiatrist’s office as he cries about his Vulcan/human identity issues.

SHAWN: Oh, thank God I can now use one utensil when I go out for fine dining at Olive Garden. And if there’s anything classier than Olive Garden, it’s a spork. Finally, my soup can taste like salad and my salad can taste like soup. It’s a dream come true…IN BIZARRO WORLD! Which, ironically enough, Spock once liberated from tyrannical space pirates. Why must we sacrifice taste and class for convenience? Excuse me, maitre’d, I think I’d enjoy this foie gras a little more with a fine spork. Chop, chop. Plus, it’s ironic that you’re such a fan of a hideous mutant hybrid spork, but care so much about Spock’s hair. Layers? Supercuts? Someone’s a bit of a hair snob. Spock’s busy caring about other things like, oh, the fate of the universe and his loyal crew. And, yes, sometimes they are his crew. At the beginning of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, 1982, Spock actually commands the Enterprise. Even though he’s not always captain, he’s as good as one. As Kirk’s right-hand man he even helped sway an entire primitive population to the side of good in Episode 3198.4 Errand of Mercy. Beat that, spork.

RYAN: I guess I didn’t realize you were a regular fancy pants that needs a separate utensil for each thing on your plate. God forbid a little residue from your Spiderman mac ‘n cheese mixes with your Musselman’s applesauce. Oh, sorry, make that foie gras and steak cause evidently you’re such a big shot you’d never be caught eating that slop like the rest of us Charlie Americans. Do you eat each vegetable in your hoity-toity salad with a separate fork? I figure you must, since you said yourself taste and class are far more important than that little old thing called convenience. No, idiot! That’s the lettuce fork, not the cucumber fork! Guh! But apologies to Spock. I didn’t realize he was captain at the beginning of the Wrath of Khan. Way to go, Spock, working your way up the ranks like that. I bet he went on to do amazing things, like… uhhhh… immediately relinquishing command to Kirk and then dying. Ummmm… great job?? Oh, wait, nevermind. They called a mulligan and brought him back to life the next movie. That was convenient. Well, apparently Spock has at least one thing in common with a spork: they’re both disposable.

SHAWN: Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that Spock was disposable in Episode 4307.1 when he helped defeat an energy-draining space creature, or Episode 3134.0 when he went back in time to stop the Nazis from winning World War II. Yeah, maybe you should put away your KFC mashed potaters, learn to read, and check out a dictionary under the word “disposable”. But you may want avoid that, for fear of accidentally glancing at “parasite” and seeing a picture of the spork. Look at it there, mooching off the success of the fork and the spoon, when there’s nothing original about it besides being a combination of the two. What next? Proclaim the awesomeness of tube tops (both tube and top) or spread the good word of Snapple (both apple and snausage)? They’re all just sucking off the teat of their predecessors. Spock would never do that, and not just because Vulcans nurse via osmosis. And you know what? Maybe I am a little hoity-toity with my mac ‘n cheese not shaped like cartoon characters and eating apples unsauced. But you know what I can enjoy with my knife and fork? A fucking steak. Have fun sporking your brains out until you just give up and eat it with your dirty, humanoid hands.

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