rankled

So here we are.

Suppose you were someone who had worked for nearly 45 years in television. 

Suppose you had guested on a myriad of variety shows and specials in the 60s and 70s. 

Suppose you had performed in the groundbreaking first season of Saturday Night Live.

Suppose you spent five seasons in the cast of a syndicated variety show that was a global phenomenon, and viewed in more than a hundred countries, and that you’d even won a couple of Emmys as one of the creative producers of that show.

Suppose you were one of the stars of two short-lived prime time series and dozens of prime time specials. 

Suppose that, while doing these jobs, you had sung memorable duets with legends like Pearl Bailey, Bob Hope, Lily Tomlin and countless other mega-stars. 

And suppose that on top of all those credits, you’d also done thousands of episodes of daytime television and a handful of feature films.  

Well, if your hand happened to be in a puppet when you did these things, it wouldn’t be enough to get you in the In Memoriam reel at the Primetime Emmys this past Sunday night.

I know. A lot of deserving non-celebrities were left out, but none of you dear devoted dozens should be surprised that the omission of Jerry Nelson (he of “jerry” and “in the wake”) would rankle me.

Rankle. That’s a good word. It’s apt in this era of Honey Boo Boo and political divisiveness. It sounds like cranky and riled and raw and anger all had a big orgy in their dictionary commune and had this little love child word: rankle.

Just for fun, I looked it up, and apparently its archaic definition is festering sore.

Huh. So I guess I can stand by my love child hypothesis, since clearly none of those words used protection.

Wow. How many blogs do you think used the words Emmy, puppet, commune, hypothesis and festering sore all in the same post today? (That is, of course, among all the blogs who presume that words can procreate...)

Anyway, maybe Jerry (and the other deserving departed who were omitted) will make the Daytime Emmys’ In Memoriam nine months from now. If he doesn’t, I will definitely be a festering sore.

Yes indeed. Welcome to me.