![]() ![]() ![]() I'll take the nebbish who can't get laid, won't grow up, and doesn't want anybody mad at him. ![]() Well, you can have the depressive brute with the cash-stuffed duffel bag and the endless string of yielding, wet-lipped women. Maybe if you're gonna watch any show about an East Coast Italian clan stuck in the sludge of love and hostility, it'll be the stiff, gassy corpse of The Sopranos, where the mope-opera Grand Guignol bushwa is so untrue to life, it makes ELR play like a newsreel. Maybe you think his show, despite its Chekhovian probing of the delicious miseries of marriage and family, is a bit too Bea Arthur for a hipster like yourself. Maybe it's the Edge Factor, that thing HBO milks so well: It's Not TV Because Someone Just Said "Cocksucker." Hell, maybe you don't love Raymond, either. Twenty million people watch the show every Monday night, millions more dig it in syndication, and I don't know any of 'em. Everybody Loves Raymond, yo-check it out. I love him like sunshine and tell my friends to look for him. A guy who makes me laugh, I owe him somehow. He'll take care of you.Ī comedy maestro? That's solid gold, brother. You brag him up to all your friends: He's the best. Plumber, barber, shoedog, chef-you know a maestro when you find one. They don't work the job they work wonder. ![]()
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