(The following partial transcript of Andy Rooney’s final 60 Minutes appearance was leaked to Funnynotslutty.com. The segment will be broadcast on October 2nd, 2011.)
BYRON PITTS: So Andy, you were quoted some years back as saying you’d only leave the show if you “dropped dead.” What made you change your mind?
ANDY ROONEY: Well, I’ll tell you, Ed…
BR: It’s Byron.
BR: I’m Byron Pitts.
AR: You’re not Ed Bradley?
(Pitts shifts uncomfortably in his chair.)
BR: No. Ed Bradley died, actually, in 2006. I’ve been here for years. I won an Emmy.
AR: I thought you shaved your beard and took off that cockamamie earring.
(Rooney rips off his mic and storms off, yelling as he goes.)
AR : Get me Morley Safer. Where the hell is Safer? You stick him on an ice floe and push, like you did to Mike Wallace?
(The show cuts abruptly to commercials. When it returns, Morley Safer has replaced Byron Pitts.)
MORLEY SAFER: Andy Rooney began his career as a war correspondent in 1943. He later joined the 60 Minutes family, where he started “A Seeming Eternity With Andy Rooney” thirty-three short years ago. He’s brought the same irascible wit to topics such as rap music, paper clips, and the disappearance of phone booths as he did to covering the German army’s march down the Champs-Elysées. On that sad note, here is Andy Rooney. And his eyebrows.
(Cut to Rooney sitting in his office set, now empty except for a folding chair and a few overstuffed cardboard boxes.)
AR: Did you ever stop and wonder why I was still on this show? Did you think I really gave a pigeon’s fart whether some fancy-shmancy coffee shop called its small cup a “tall” and charged what I paid for a steak dinner and a bottle of bourbon back in ’58? You think I actually lost sleep wondering why I could never get both sides of my shoelaces to be the same length, or why bell-bottoms were invented?
Of course I didn’t give a damn about that penny-ante nonsense. I’ve seen wars in person! I know real atrocities when I see them. The Housewives of wherever the heck they live may be a bunch of silicone pumped troglodytes, but unless they start goose-stepping and saluting the Führer, they’re not atrocities.
You think I wouldn’t have retired before now if I had a decent future ahead of me? I’m 92 goddamn years old. My ears are so big I can’t hold my head up any more. Look how low my head is sunk into my shoulders. If you see me from behind, it looks like the sun setting on the plains.
I know what life has in store for me now – a room at the Old Broadcasters’ Home, dinner at 4:30, a sponge bath, then bed. Is that any kind of life for a celebrated journalist?
(He mulls this over.)
You know… it just might be. So long, America. You can find somebody else to talk about ant farms and the metric system. Andy Rooney’s going to be fed spoonfuls of rainbow sherbet by a busty Haitian nurse’s aid.
Tick… tick… tick… tick.
K A B L O O E Y is a 47 year old non-practicing filmmaker who lives with Phineas at an undisclosed suburban location. Their three kids are Moochie (6), Lonzie (20) and The Big Puppy (22). She (who am I kidding, I’m writing this myself) tweets @kblooey and has two goals: 1) To make creative work a central part of my life, and 2) To keep my family from needing the services of the Supernanny.