Usually, in order to get me this ... um ... excited ... it takes me a half bottle of Viagra, five really drunk lesbian hookers and a goat dressed as a French maid ...

On that note, let us begin ...

When the former president of the United States, George W. Bush, was asked to comment on the recent eye surgery given to his one-time oil/banking business partner, Osama bin Laden, Bush looked up and replied, "Is it okay to put the Pirate Legos together with the Castle Legos?" The left-wing media, however, was not to be deterred, "Mr. Bush," a reporter from The Nation yelled, "are you embarrassed by your utter failure as a president, to not only not have captured bin Laden, but also by your being the most morally bankrupt, corrupt, lowlife Born-with-a-Silver-Coke-Spoon-in-Your-Ass douche bag whoever stole an election in the history of the United States of America?" Bush never missed a beat as he shot back at the cheeky journalist, "My mom got me Play Doh."

Still, after the press had left the former president's Houston walk-up apartment, Bush wondered out loud to Laura if he was in any danger. Worried, he was, that whoever these SEAL Team Six people, whatever they are, since they seemed to be murdering innocent monsters, would he be next ... "No," his heavily medicated wife said, "you're safe," as she pulled her sweater a little tighter around her shivering shoulders and peered out the side of their third-floor window. "Mommy, what costume can I wear today?" George hollered from his playroom. Still looking out the window as a cold chill ran through her, the former first lady softly said to no one, "Why don't you put your Horse's Ass costume back on, dear? You always wore it so well."

And as for Barack Obama, in one week he found both his birth certificate and Osama bin Laden. Without his even sleazier father's help, George W. Bush couldn't find his own well-oiled ass if his hands were glued inside his back pockets. The Washington Post, in 2005, reported that a CIA unit composed of special operations paramilitary forces dedicated to capturing Osama had been shut down that same year. Mission. Not. Quite. Accomplished.

Which brings us to the audacity of the Bush Administration. That they are taking credit for Osama bin Laden's assassination? Is there not a gracious fucking Republican in America? The former Bush Administration douche bags did not have the good fucking sense to sit the fuck down and celebrate a tremendous American military victory, instead all we heard from FOXtard News, was "It was Bush, It was Bush, It was Bush ... " Jesus fucking Christ. These assholes have no fucking bottom. With each breath they sink lower and lower. Rove, Cheney, the Rummy — they even propped up one of the Reagan kids — Michael, the retarded one. These people are so low they could all suck barnacles off the bottom of the Titanic. The only Bushtards we didn't have to listen to were Victor Ashe and Jeff Gannon. What the hell is wrong with these people? Were they raised by weasels?

All right, let's move on to the late 54-year-old Osama bin Laden. The motherfucker be dead, dead, dead. DGH, JTH, Kathi, Kathypig1, Ray Arthur, Sarndra and Wendy all get 14 points for the hit. Sadly, there are no bonus points for you seven. But take heart: The Deadpool staff, and indeed a grateful nation, thank you for your service. Total: 14.

As for Erik, I'll miss him. Despite his being twelve inches deep in a gallon jug of Rare Eagle when he made his bombastic threat, I know the man has way too much personal integrity not to stand strong on said threat. And, Erik, that delusional flight suit looks much better on you than it ever did on Bush.

We will all miss you ...

— Bill Schenley

I have a clear memory of my mother telling me that the guy on the reruns of The People's Choice that I watched every morning at 9 had once been the kid in the Little Rascals shorts I watched every morning at 7. I'm not sure I believed her.

Jackie Cooper didn't have a stage mother. He had a stage grandmother. When Jackie was about two, Grandma began bringing him to the studios in hopes of getting work for herself as an extra. By 1929 Jackie himself was getting bit parts, and then he landed in Hal Roach's Our Gang comedy shorts. Jackie spent a little over a year doing those shorts before Roach sent him to another studio to make a feature film, Skippy. The 1931 film was directed by Norman Taurog, who was Jackie's uncle. Much later, Jackie told the story about how good old Uncle Norm needed him to cry for a scene, and nine-year-old Jackie couldn't or wouldn't, so good old Uncle Norm had a stagehand take Jackie's dog outside, and suddenly there was a gunshot. Sure enough, Jackie cried. Good old Uncle Norm had faked the whole thing just to get the scene ... and only fifty years or so later, Jackie titled his autobiography Please Don't Shoot My Dog, in which he mentions that he hated working with pretty much all his directors.

Jackie got fifty bucks a week and an Oscar nomination for Best Actor out of Skippy. He was cast in an unrelated series of four features in the early '30s with gruff Wallace Beery, an audience favorite who would have been a lot less of a favorite if the audience had actually known anything about him. Jackie once called Beery "an awful man," which was the general take in Hollywood on Wallace Beery, but the movies he and Jackie made together — particularly The Champ and Treasure Island — still work, and the chemistry between the two remains clear.

Jackie transitioned neatly into older roles. He worked steadily through the rest of the '30s and up until World War II, when he joined the Navy and saw combat in the South Pacific. Film work was sparse when Jackie returned, as it was for a lot of other actors. Unlike a lot of other actors, though, Jackie found a welcoming home in early television, and he began appearing on live Golden Age dramas such as Ford Television Theater and Armstrong Circle Theater.

Those increasingly decrepit boomers who still recall the TV series The People's Choice remember it mostly for Cleo, a basset hound whose opinions about everything going on around her were expressed via droll voiceover. Jackie Cooper led the cast as Sock Miller, Cleo's owner. The People's Choice ran for three years, mostly because of Cleo's popularity, and Jackie never fooled himself about that. He saw The People's Choice as a welcome opportunity, though, and he took it. Jackie directed more than a dozen episodes of the show. They were his first work as a director.

The People's Choice ended in 1958, and a year later came Hennesey, a series in which Jackie played a U.S. Navy medical officer who actually acted like, well, an adult. He dated, he got married, he had problems. The series was often referred to as being "too good for TV" but, if so, it was at least bad enough to run for three years. For its part, the Navy loved the show and used it in its recruiting efforts. Approached by the Navy, Jackie accepted a commission in the Naval Reserve, where he remained for more than twenty years.

After Hennesey, Jackie worked mostly as a director, and he worked steadily. He never quite stopped acting, though. You'd see him in a guest shot once in a while, and he even did another series in 1975, appearing as a hard-nosed reporter on Mobile One.

And then Jackie suddenly found himself promoted to editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet.

The makers of the 1978 Superman film had hired Keenan Wynn to play Perry White, and he would have been terrific. However, Wynn flew to London shortly before filming began, hopped off the plane, and promptly had a heart attack. The clock was running and money was cascading into the sewer. The producers got on the phone to Jackie Cooper. Do you have a passport? they asked. Sure, said Jackie. Great! they said. There's a first-class ticket waiting for you at LAX. Up, up and away.

The Our Gang films don't run anymore on television, Jackie's early features aren't often shown, and his TV shows have wound up in warehouses or been stripped on skinny little nostalgia channels that no one watches ... but Jackie's turn as Perry White in four Superman films remains front and center, and is likely what he'll be most remembered for. After that fourth film, Jackie was all but done. In 1989, after a handful of final directing gigs, he retired, and he stuck to it. He said he'd worked for 64 of his 67 years, and that was long enough.

There's one more story. Jackie got married during World War II to his first wife, starlet June Horne. They had a son together, John Cooper III. The marriage ended in 1949. Several years later, M-G-M approached June and offered her a contract for their son. They'd call him Jackie Cooper Jr., and they were waving a lot of money around. Jackie talked June out of it. "It's no way for a kid to grow up," said Jackie, who knew damned well what he was talking about. None of Jackie's four children ever went into acting.

Beth & Teresa, Busgal, Dead People Server and Garrett (first hit of the year) each get five points for the hit.

— Brad

Charlene to the rescue!

* * *

Severiano Ballesteros' obituaries are full of praise for his uniquely aggressive gameplay. Forceful, pushy, cocky, "car park golf": Whatever you call it, Seve will be mainly remembered as one of the great golfers of the late 20th century. This is unfortunate, as Seve's greatest legacy — and the one he really should be remembered for — was not as a mere athlete but as a leading member of the post-Franco Spanish cultural renaissance.

For the first thirty years of the post-war period, Spain was cut off culturally from the rest of Europe. When the country emerged from Francoist oppression, some Spaniards felt that the only use Northern Europe had for Spain was as a holiday destination or a source of cheap labour, while some outside the country believed Spain was just too backwards, too stupid and too uncivilized to be a proper member of the European Community. Seve was one of the first Spaniards to kick at that darkness. As the first major international Spanish athletic star since the end of Francoism, he led not by fancy words but by example, showing Europe and his own countrymen that a Spaniard of working-class background could become a master of that most Northern European of sports. This really mattered at the time; Seve's success directly inspired not just professional athletes like Rafael Nadal and Jose Maria Olazabal but everyday Spaniards, people who had thought themselves not good enough because of their nationality.

Seve Ballesteros died at the age of 54. Allezblancs, Charlene, Chipmunk Roasting, Dead People Server, Denise, DGH, Erik, Eternity Tours, Jazz Vulture, JD, Mark (first hit of the year), Monarc, Morris the Cat, Undertaker, Walking Dead Dude and Worm Farmer are each pencilling 14 points onto their game cards.

— Charlene

Mose Jefferson was 68 when he met the best friend he would ever have: Death. You see, prior to that meeting, Mose was off to that wonderful world where sunlight and air are pumped into your cell. Sometimes.

Jefferson came by his dishonesty ... honestly. He was part of the Louisiana Jefferson Crime Syndicate where, if your name is Jefferson, you can be anything you want to be, anything from a pickpocket or a carny huckster to a bagman or a hitman. Police in Lake Providence already have arrest warrants issued for Mose Jefferson's unborn grandchildren. The state attorney general has ordered that Thomas Jefferson, Isabel Sanford, Spencer Dryden and Jefferson Davis all be dug up ... just because.

Mose was the older brother of former congressman William Jefferson who, at this moment, resides in a federal prison. If William Jefferson's convictions are upheld, his brother will long be mulch when he is released. As for the rest of the Jeffersons (or as they are referred to in Louisiana, the "minority neighborhood association"), you would need a scorecard to keep up with the criminal charges. And not a regular scorecard, either, but one of those Major League Baseball All-Star Game scorecards, the kind they will print when the All-Star team rosters have been expanded to 200 players each. Here are just a few of the Jeffersons and their criminal friends who were involved: Brett M. Pfeffer; Vernon Jackson and his wife Mahalia; Renée Gill Pratt; Betty Jefferson; George Jetson; Andrea Jefferson; Jelani Jefferson; the entire Jefferson Avenue Historic District of Ogden, Utah; Angela Coleman; G. Walker Bush; Ellenese Brooks-Simms; Archie Jefferson; Jefferson Milhouse D'Arcy; Brenda Jefferson Foster; Andrea Jefferson; Jalila Jefferson-Bullock; Jelani Jefferson Exum; Nailah Jefferson; Reggie Jefferson; Jefferson, Wisconsin; Akilah Jefferson and Mount Jefferson. These people were just short of the Nigerian Bank Scam ... or were they?

http://tinyurl.com/2s8wjr + http://tinyurl.com/3smgkeq = http://tinyurl.com/3kl6bbp

Denise, DGH, Gerard Tierney, Monarc and Morris the Cat all score an impressive 11 points ... and from each of them I expect an envelope with a sizeable gratuity on my desk by the end of business on Friday.

— Bill Schenley

Ron Springs, the former Dallas Cowboys and Tampa Bay Buccaneers running back who spent five years in a coma, has finally brought closure to his faithful wife, his loving son, and the three remaining AO Deadpool players who had him as a pick and spent four years tapping their fingers on the table, patiently waiting for his final exhale and the short-yardage dash across a goal line that looked eerily similar to the River Styx. He was 54.

Trouble for Springs began with type-2 diabetes (and it's trouble for everyone). He had one foot lopped off and two toes from the other foot. Then he needed a kidney, which was donated to him by his former Cowboys teammate, Everson Walls. Then he was going to have his elbow amputated ... or maybe it was just a cyst. Who knows? In the end, though, he was just another deadpool pick who stubbornly made players around the world wait on his demise.

Convicted degenerate rapist Lawrence Taylor was one of his football teammates in high school. That's really not germane to this update, but I'm looking for mindless length right now, so stay with me for a few more minutes.

Morris the Cat, Mark and Undertaker all rush for two touchdowns and two point-after conversions, and they each get an extra point for the trio. Total: 15.

— Bill Schenley

The great writer, Charlene, sent this along.

* * *

Writing about Joe Wershba is like writing about James Boswell: the Great Man in the background keeps poking his head into the picture. Wershba's Johnson was of course his boss, Edward R. Murrow, the behemoth of early American broadcasting and the focus of so much recent attention. In fact, much of what we know about Murrow comes from Wershba, who was extensively interviewed not just for the recent movie Good Night, and Good Luck (in which he was played by Robert Downey Jr.) but for almost all of Murrow's major biographies. One would almost think that, like the common belief that Boswell was Johnson's constant companion and lackey, Wershba's only contributions to journalism took place at Murrow's side.

But if Ed Murrow was the bright but fleeting meteor of quality American television journalism, Joe Wershba was the constant North Star. As a producer, writer and reporter he was never afraid to fight dragons. Subtle but thorough, he did his best to show his subjects as they were, not as he (or the public) wished them to be. His 60 Minutes segment on Pete Rose, produced in collaboration with journalist Morley Safer, is a master class in how to give a subject enough rope to hang himself without actually handing it to him. In contrast, his Teddy Kollek's Jerusalem is a devastatingly poignant biography not just of a mayor but of the city he was unable to control.

Had Joe Wershba died in 1990, his epitaph could have been "if you seek my monument, look around." Nowadays, though, with the news department more entranced by Lady Gaga than Robert Mugabe, his epitaph might instead be Andy Rooney's comment that he was the most loved member of the early 60 Minutes team. If you want to know more about Wershba, the Archive of American Television has a six-hour interview with him on its website here.

Joseph Wershba died on May 14 at the age of 90. It's good night and good luck for Buford, who gets a solo and a total of 7 points. Has he no decency?

— Charlene

Poor Charlene. She doesn't know the trouble she's in. Her updates are so bleeping good, she will be made to do more.

* * *

Imagine you've assigned yourself two obituaries to write up. One, of a respected and important American journalist, requires multiple visits to the local library (and inadvertently lands you in the middle of 50,000 delirious hockey fans at exactly the wrong moment) and, in addition, leads you to watch a six-hour interview of the subject and read three books on his mentor. The other is of an Elvis impersonator.

Which one do you think is harder?

Ted Prior was a well-known Ocean City, New Jersey Elvis impersonator. In fact he was, as far as I can tell, the only Ocean City, New Jersey Elvis impersonator. I can't make fun of him too badly, if only because his work ethic was far beyond mine, or even the King's: In fifty years of concerts, which is seven years longer than Elvis lived, Ted never missed one until his final illness. And he wasn't a bad Elvis:

Ted as Elvis

His Tammy Wynette, on the other hand ...

Ted as ... Tammy Wynette?!?

Ted Prior has been returned to sender, address unknown, at the age of 68. It's Heartbreak Hotel for his friends and family, but there's Peace in the Valley for AO Deadpooler Gerard Tierney, whose classy solo earns him 11 points plus five for the solo. I'm guessing he's all shook up.

— Charlene

Perhaps the longest update ever written? Still, very cool from the other big man, Bill Schenley.

* * *

In the early to mid-1980s, I promoted autograph shows in New Jersey, mostly with Yankees, but often with players from other teams. To drop just a few names — Ted Williams [a], DiMaggio (X3) [b], Ford [c], Berra [d], Rizzuto (X2) [e], Enos Slaughter [f], Bob Feller (X4) [g], Stan Musial [h], Willie Mays [i], Willie Stargell [j], Duke Snider (X2) [k], Pee Wee Reese [l], Bobby Thomson [m], Johnny Mize [n], Moose Skowron [o], Mattingly [p], Winfield [q], Piniella [r], Roy White [s], Mickey Rivers [t], Paul Blair [u], Mookie Wilson [v], George Foster [w] Bobby Shantz [x], Ed Figueroa [y], and Stan Williams [z] were just a few. This is a list that could go on and on ... but I never did a show with Mickey Mantle, who was a boyhood baseball hero of mine. People would always ask why I passed on Mantle and I would tell them the truth. I was afraid he would be the Mickey Mantle sportswriters wrote about in the '70s and '80s. You know, the obnoxious, thoughtless, asshole drunk. Mostly though ... I was afraid he wouldn't be anything like my buddy, Harmon Killebrew.

So this is my Harmon Killebrew story:

I was ten years old, and I was at the 1959 All-Star Game at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I remember that the National League won 5-4, and that Whitey Ford was the losing pitcher. Al Kaline and Eddie Mathews both hit home runs. Or maybe I don't really remember that at all. Maybe I've just read it so many times in the last fifty years that I only think I remember those All-Star moments. I do, however, have a clear picture of what happened after the baseball game. Me, my mother, my dad and Bob Prince, who was a Pirates sportscaster and a friend to my father, went to a private club, the Pittsburgh Athletic Association, after the game. Most of the American and National League All-Stars also went to the PAA.

Management gave us, as a souvenir, a white Scally cap (like a cab driver might wear, with a snap in the front) with a plastic cover and the PAA logo in the middle. The cap was for kids to get autographs on the top. I had so many signatures that I ran out of room. [1] They also handed out a simple program with the two All-Star rosters and two pages for autographs. It was with this program that I approached one of my favorite baseball players for a signature. Usually it is difficult for a ten-year-old to recognize baseball players without a number on their back, but this guy — I had practiced his batting stance what seemed to be ... a million times — so even without a number on the back of his sport coat — I knew him immediately. Stan Musial. He was very nice, he signed the paper and handed it to another guy whom I did not recognize. At that time Musial said to me, "This guy here is a pretty good ballplayer," and then he walked away and stole my pen. [2]

The "guy" looked down at me and held up one finger, a signal to wait while he found another pen. He couldn't find a pen so he borrowed a pencil from some shady-looking character who looked like he needed a shave and then, to my shock, he knelt down next to me and said, "What is your name, son?" After I told him, he wrote, "Best wishes to my buddy, Bill — Harmon Killebrew." I lived in a world where children were to be seen, rarely, and heard even less. So even now, fifty-plus years later, I can't express how important that moment was to me — that he took the time to see me, a ten-year-old, as a person. The following summer I told everyone on my Little League baseball team that Harmon Killebrew and I were pals — "See, right there," I would say. "To my buddy, Bill ... "

All of my life I've had favorite baseball players — Mantle, Minnie Minoso, Rocky Colavito, Vic Power, Bill White, Stan Musial, Elston Howard, Bill Mazeroski, Smokey Burgess, Richie Ashburn, Hank Bauer, Mickey Vernon, Wes Covington, Graig Nettles, Thurman Munson and Chris Chambliss ... but there were two baseball players I actually adored — Roberto Clemente and Harmon Killebrew. Ask me almost any Mantle stat and I know it instantly, same with Clemente, and the same applies to The Killer. I know he wore number 25 and number 12 on his jersey for the Senators before he settled in with number 3. His batting average in 1959, his first full season, was .242. He hit 573 home runs during his career and he struck out 1,699 times. All of his thirty errors in 1959 came at third base. I only remember these useless numbers because of a moment — maybe thirty seconds long — a half century ago. Man, I just loved this guy.

If you read as many of his obituaries and tributes as I have, then you will have noticed that Harmon Killebrew was loved and respected throughout not only the baseball world but the rest of the universe, too. He was just what all those obit writers said he was, "the nicest man in the world."

However, there is more to my Harmon Killebrew story. After he signed my program, he handed the pencil back to the fellow who loaned it to him. That slug then grabbed my program and scrawled his signature across the page. I was flippin' furious. Harmon Killebrew's and Stan Musial's autographs had been sullied by someone whose name I not only did not recognize, but knew instinctively that he was not a baseball player. Being ten years old, my only recourse was tell my father and hope he broke the interloper's unshaved jaw. When I showed my parents the signature, my very conservative Republican father pointed out to me, and not too politely, that the man who added his name to my souvenir program would soon be the next President of the United States. And although he did not become the next president, sadly, nine years later, this weasel did become president. Years later, I had this program matted and framed. Ask me how thrilled I was to have to pay for Richard Nixon's signature to be framed ...

So my "buddy" is gone and, like so many others, I cashed in on The Killer's misfortune. Still, for the rest of my life, when I don't root for the Yankees, I will for the Minnesota Twins. Bill Schenley, Charlene, DDT, Denise (who better not be pumping her fist), DGH, Direcorbie, Erik, Jazz Vulture, Mark, Mo, Monarc, Morris the Cat, O'Wilner (first hit of the year), Undertaker, Walking Dead Dude and Wendy all put up a crooked number this inning as they score with a couple of grand slams. Total: 8.

[1] Al Kaline, Nellie Fox, Orlando Cepeda, Don Drysdale, Hank Aaron, Rocky Colavito, Ted Williams, Gil McDougald, Jim Bunning, Johnny Antonelli, Roy Sievers, Luis Aparicio, Frank Malzone, Gus Triandos, Sherm Lollar, Bill Mazeroski, Lou Burdette, Ernie Banks, Willie Mays, Dick Groat, Kenny Boyer, Elroy Face, Minnie Minoso, Johnny Temple, Vic Power, Gene Conley, Smokey Burgess, Vinegar Bend Mizell, Bill White and Wally Moon.

[2] I'm sitting with Musial at the table while he's signing for people, and I tell him the same story I just told here and, of course, I remind him that he stole my pen. He said that he had been stealing pens for most of his baseball life. He added that he didn't mean to, but when it was time to go he'd put the pens in his pocket and he would leave. To make up for his earlier theft, though, he gave me a really nice gold St. Louis Cardinals ballpoint pen. When the show was over, I drove both him and Willie Stargell to the Newark airport. As I was unloading their luggage from my truck, someone asked Stan the Man for an autograph, he searched for a pen — I handed him my brand new St. Louis Cardinals pen — he signed, thanked me for the lift to the airport, and then walked away with the pen ... and I never saw him again.

[a] Ted Williams was great. I sat next to him for two hours and he talked hitting to me like I was a major league baseball player. One of my favorites.

[b] Joe DiMaggio was the most miserable bastard I ever worked with. Still, I made the most money with him. Before I will remember him as a major league ballplayer, though, I will think of him as a major league asshole. The word most often applied to DiMaggio is "class." The only part of that word that is applicable to Joltin' Joe are the last three letters.

[c] Whitey Ford was great. Told funny stories. And he put up with everybody asking him about Mantle.

[d] Yogi Berra is not as dumb as he acts. Very astute as to the business of memorabilia.

[e] The Scooter, Phil Rizzuto, was hilarious, although you knew he was telling those baseball stories for the umpteenth time.

[f] I really liked Enos Slaughter. Maybe he was practiced, but when he told me that he was wrong about Jackie Robinson, he said, "That boy could play baseball," and there was nothing racist in that comment.

[g] Bob Feller was another of my favorites. Never made much money with him, but he was great with fans.

[h] I'll tell my Stan Musial story when he dies. In the meantime, I will just say he was the best.

[i] Willie Mays was one of the worst.

[j] Willie Stargell, like Musial, was one of the best.

[k] Duke Snider was a very nice guy. Like Feller, Snider was great with fans.

[l] And, like Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese treated fans great.

[m] Bobby Thomson was standoffish, but he was easy to work with.

[n] Johnny Mize was a guy who had a great time doing these shows. He seemed genuinely surprised baseball fans still remembered who he was.

[o] Moose Skowron was a nice guy but, like Rizutto, he was recycling his baseball tales.

[p] Polite, Don Mattingly was.

[q] Dave Winfield was great. Much to his dismay, he shook a thousand hands that day.

[r] Lou Piniella told the funniest stories ... and none of them had anything to do with baseball. Another favorite.

[s] Roy White was a really good guy.

[t] Mickey Rivers was also hilarious, although a few light bulbs shy of a night game.

[u] Paul Blair was a gentleman.

[v] Mookie Wilson was cool, but I question his ability to function off the diamond.

[w] George Foster was a pain in the ass to work with.

[x] Bobby Shantz was a super guy. I had heard bad things about doing a show with him, but with me he was all aces.

[y] Ed Figueroa was a good guy.

[z] Stan Williams was there for the payday ... and not much else.

— Bill Schenley

Unfortunately, when you talk about the career of Jeff Conaway, you also have to talk about how he screwed it up, made it all the way back, but then screwed it up again, and for keeps.

But things started well. Jeff was a child actor and model, and he was even in a pretty good band for a while. He landed a role in the Broadway musical Grease, understudying the lead and several other roles. Jeff eventually inherited the part of Danny Zuko from Barry Bostwick, and wound up playing it for more than two years. Years later, when they made the movie version, the role of Danny went to John Travolta (who'd been in the chorus during the Broadway run) and Jeff wound up playing Danny's best friend, Kenickie.

In that same year, 1978, Jeff was cast in the sitcom Taxi as Bobby Wheeler, an actor who drove a cab while trying to kickstart a pretty thin career. Taxi turned out to be a hit, and that's when things started to go south for Jeff. He was fine during the first season. Sometime before production started on season two, though, Jeff got into drugs and booze in a big way, and things got worse and worse for him. When it came time to film a third-season episode ironically titled "Out of Commission," Jeff was found in his dressing room, incapable of going on. His dialogue was quickly divided between actors Danny DeVito and Christopher Lloyd, who got bigger laughs than Jeff ever got. That was it for Jeff, who was let go after the season was over.

Jeff guested on other series (and even on Taxi, once), and he did the soap opera The Bold and the Beautiful for a year, beginning in 1989. That was around the time Jeff got clean again. In 1994, he landed the role of security officer (later chief) Zack Allan on the science fiction series Babylon 5. Zack Allan was supposed to be a one-off, but Jeff clicked in the part, and he wound up playing Zack for four years. It was a fresh start.

And then it ended. Jeff was back on painkillers because, he said, he'd aggravated an old back injury, and he was addicted to cocaine and alcohol as well; he admitted that he pretty much always had been, at least since his teens. Jeff also fantasized about committing suicide, at one point claiming that he had tried to kill himself no fewer than twenty-one times, usually with pills. By 2008 he was confined to a wheelchair and undergoing the humiliation of appearing on a dismal TV program called Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

By the summer of 2009, though, Jeff claimed to be much better, and said that he was once again off painkillers. He was dead less than two years later, once again so drug-addled that he failed to recognize the symptoms of the pneumonic sepsis that put him into a coma and then killed him.

However tragic the whole thing was, it also seemed inevitable, a sad fact appreciated by Abby, Allen Kirshner, Constant Irritant, Dead People Server, Denise, Eternity Tours, The Wiz, Walking Dead Dude and Worm Farmer, each of whom gets 11 points for the hit.

— Brad

I cannot oversell the power of a Hunter College degree for the (usually Jewish) women of the '30s and '40s. Hunter College was the part of the City University of New York system that was strictly for women. A free, top-drawer education, the likes of which had never been there for women. Women who came from immigrant families without much in the way of money, and nothing in the way of desire to provide for their daughters what they gladly offered to their sons.

My mother was one of those women. Her parents were not keen on sending her to college after her brother had gone, but a loving uncle insisted loudly. (I named my son after him.) In the years my mother was at Hunter were Congresswoman Bella Abzug, opera singer Regina Resnik, film critic Judith Crist, architectural critic Ada Louise Huxtable, dancer Pearl Primus, journalist Shirley Werbsha (whose husband was farewelled here), Ruby Dee, Bess Myerson and the subject of this update, Rosalyn Yalow, who was to win the Nobel Prize for medicine for the development of the radioimmunoassay 35 years later. Only the second woman at the time to do so.

Yalow graduated magna cum laude from Hunter, its first physics major, before she was 20, and still had trouble getting into graduate school. "They told me that as a woman, I'd never get into graduate school in physics," she said, "so they got me a job as a secretary at the College of Physicians and Surgeons and promised that, if I were a good girl, I would take courses there."

My sister remembers our mother being very proud of knowing Rosalyn Yalow in college. And I've always thought it striking that I graduated from a science high school with her daughter.

Dannyb has been keeping Rosalyn Yalow on ice for his entire AO Deadpool career. A classy hit, his first of the year, worth 5 points plus 5 for the solo. Total: 10.

— Amelia