Tony Randall Died and I Won $5

So far the score is Pauly 1, Boy Genius 0.

If you don't know what's up, I foolishly got into a weekly proposition wagering debacle with Boy Genius. He threw down the gauntlet and I accepted. Here's the recap:

My first proposition: Pop Culture Passings. Pauly McGrupp... will the next celebrity to pass on to the pearly gates be a musician, or an actor?

And I picked an actor! Luckily, earlier this morning Tony Randall died, which netted me $5!

Why am I gloating over a man's death? Because almost 10 years ago, he was a complete dick, jerkoff, asshole to me. And I have never forgotten about our chance encounter.

A decade ago, my first job out of college was as a security guard at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was an odd period of time in my life, the transition phase from college to real life, and I wasn't exactly just ready to jump into the 9 to 5 world, so I took a bullshit job, where I knew I could just shuffle in hungover everyday... alas, I was a security guard.

One fateful day, I got stuck working in the Main Hall... specifically in the dreaded coat check. It started to rain, and the Met had a weird policy about: NO UMBRELLAS in the galleries. That meant visitors had to stand in line and check their umbrellas, wet or dry, it didn't make a difference. That particular day, the museum was swamped, and everyone had umbrellas. The line was backed up into the Main Hall. The umbrellas were dripping wet sheltering their owners from one of the biggest downpours of that year. The four security guards working the coat check area had pruned hands from handling the wet umbrellas. They were more soaked than the visitors.

I recall standing up on a wheel chair and yelling out to the crowd: "Ladies and Gentleman, if you could please help us out, since it's a very rainy day, please use the white plastic bags you see in front of you. Thank you."

And in the middle of my quick speech I noticed that Tony Randall was second or third in line. He had his trophy wife with him, a 20something year old model. He lived close to the Met and he was probably one of the more frequent celebrity visitors. Each day we'd get a Tony Randall sighting. And every guard pretty much that met him had to say the same two things:

1. He's a dick.
2. His wife is hot.

Anyway, I got back behind the coat check counter and started to accept umbrellas. I put one away and I looked up and there was Tony Randall, handing me a dripping wet umbrella. He never bothered to use the plastic bags we provided. Instead he maliciously handed me over his umbrella like it was a dirty diaper filled with rotten mushy baby shit. He gave me a look like: "I'm fuckin' Tony Randall. I'm fuckin' a twenty year old. You make minimum wage. Fuck your plastic bag." And I was not pleased. Of course he didn't tip me, the cheap bastard.

Now, let's flash forward a decade. I got my sweet revenge. I made money on his passing. So, I'm a heartless fuck. But, I'm a winning gambler today, rejoicing about the death of a guy who thought he was better than everyone else. It don't matter in the big picture, and I'll probably give the money to a homeless person on the subway, and say, "Don't thank me. Thank Tony Randall, that fuckin' umbrella jerkoff."