Djaever Notice Retirement Never Lasts As Long As You Want It To?

Andy Rooney, who spent more than 30 years riffing on whatever happened to be in his line of vision for 3 minutes rather than actually writing and preparing a script, has died of complications from minor surgery, because at the age of 92, there is no such thing as minor surgery. Especially if it was intended to rein in those eyebrows. Rooney has been America’s confused, curmudgeonly, racist, annoying, bat-shit crazy grandfather in nigh weekly commentaries that you got stuck watching because the NFL game ran late and you don’t want to miss the start of The Amazing Race. Over the years, the inanity he has harangued America about has included the spelling and pronunciation of February, how he doesn’t like metal watchbands because his wrist hairs get caught, his dim understanding of inflation, the size of women’s handbags, his ability to sleep anywhere, and the fact that they don’t put bees on nickels anymore. Above all, he lionized his antique Underwood typewriter that he hunted and pecked on for 50 years, compared with him churning through 7 computers in 6 years. Presumably because he kept cracking them open trying to change the carbon paper. He claimed to love properly pressed pants and carefully shined shoes and to have devices in his office to achieve both, yet perpetually looked as rumpled as a bus station suit. Rooney gave his final sign-off just a month ago, so all 60 Minutes needs to do tonight is slap an “Andy Rooney (1919-2011)” graphic up on last month’s retrospective segment.