That Bill Cosby rape scandal sure is sad. Dozens of women have
come forth to accuse a beloved, groundbreaking comedian of drugging and
assaulting them. But you know what the saddest part is? It’s what this all
means for me. It’s that I can no
longer enjoy reruns of The Cosby Show.
Heathcliff Huxtable has always been an archetypal TV father,
being loving and indulgent to his kids but disciplining them when he needed to.
Now a sick feeling will come over me whenever I watch him lecture Theo that “I brought
you into this world and I can take you out” or eat a massive hoagie that he
knows he should stay away from. Sure, I could still watch Cosby for the whip-smart charm of Claire Huxtable or Rudy’s
lip-synch routines but most of it is just ruined by all this rape business and
my rerun viewing habits are inconvenienced.
Way to ruin it, ladies.
We could have avoided all this if you’d just overcome the
pain of being subjected to a violent crime and taken the very real risk that
reporting a rape by a wealthy, powerful, popular entertainer would have
destroyed your career. Why did you wait so long to have your allegations
minimized and have lawyers and misogynists drag your name through the mud? It
defies explanation.
We could have all been happy but since this scandal has
forced TV Land to stop showing The Cosby
Show, now I can’t just have the show on in the background while I’m making
dinner or folding laundry. I can’t waste time at work reading articles and top
10 lists reminiscing about the 30th anniversary of the sitcom. My
childhood now has a black mark on a tiny, tiny part of it. What a tragedy. For
me.
And that’s not even getting into the Jell-O pudding pops.
What a disgrace that I can no longer enjoy them without feeling dirty. I don’t
believe they’ve actually made these things in years, but still.
Again, this is about me. Can’t we just all think of what’s
important here? My needs?
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