Where were you when you heard that Tim Russert died? That will be the defining question in years to come. Is there a man or woman alive in America today who doesn’t have the answer to that question indelibly burned into their brain?
I for one will never forget how the streets fell silent as news of the death of the host of the little-watched Sunday morning show Meet The Press reached the masses. Men spontaneously burst into flames as pregnant women went into labor from the shock of hearing that a millionaire public affairs program host passed away.
Russert gave so much in presiding over the show that Dick Cheney referred to as the best venue for Republicans to go on to promote their agenda, receiving only a paltry several million dollars a year in compensation. He was reluctant to talk about it, but his touch could cure leprosy. He regularly ordered his driver to take his limo through ghetto streets so he could throw hundred-dollar bills out the window to the less fortunate. During commercial breaks on Meet The Press, he suckled orphans with his ample man-breasts. Tim Russert was, in short, the finest human being who ever lived.
By presidential decree, starting in 2009, all work will cease at the exact minute when he died for one hour. Television stations will go dark and no commercial flights will be allowed over America’s skies on the anniversary of his death. In his honor, the month of June will be renamed Russert. Parents who name their children, male or female, “Tim” will receive a tax-free gift of five thousand dollars and government jobs from which they cannot be fired.