It's time to light the lights!
In anticipation of the new Muppet movie that comes out at the end of the month, the Muppets themselves have been in the midst of a PR tour. Seriously, they are making stops EVERYWHERE: WWE, "Dancing with the Stars," and I'm sure they are going to make an appearance or two on "Saturday Night Live" when Jason Segel hosts. It's a Muppet invasion.
Now, I must confess that I've never been a huge Muppet fan. Don't get me wrong - I like Miss Piggy and Gonzo as much as the next person, and I'll always sing along to "Rainbow Connection." But I hardly ever watched the show, and I'm not learned in Muppet-lore. And I think I know why.
I killed Jim Henson.
Well, not really. But I've always felt bad about his death. Why, you ask? Well, Mr. Henson died on May 16, 1990 - the very exact day that I was born. My mother told me that when she called her good friend to tell her that she'd had the baby (read: me), her friend responded, "Oh, we need some good news today. Jim Henson died."
Now no one can really know what happens to us when we die, and how God (or Allah or Vishnu or Oprah, whoever you believe in) determines who goes when. But I can't help but wonder, if it's a population thing - does someone have to die when someone else is born? I mean, just to keep some semblance of order? And if that's the case, was Jim Henson sacrificed so that I could live?
I was advised by my father to never share this theory, lest people think I'm mentally ill. But I just needed to get this off my chest. I'm sorry I killed Jim Henson.
And now I leave you with Stephen Lynch's "Jim Henson's Dead and Gone."
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