2002-11-22 - 2:01 p.m.
I bet Oprah thought she was invincible. She’d set up a life where death can’t come within 15 feet of her or else he’d be arrested for violating his restraining order.
She’d hired a cook to deny her temptations to plaque her arteries,
she traveled in her private jet flown by a hand-selected, elite pilot,
her black Mercedes limousine was surrounded by less valuable black Lincoln Towncars, driven by less valuable people, so when she ventured onto the public freeways, they created a metal and human barrier which could not be penetrated by renegade drivers,
each hair follicle was chrome-plated by her trusty hair stylist Andre in order to protect her billion dollar brain and mouth combo from any dodgy, gravity-striken stage lights.
Ms. Winfrey, death scares me too. But recently, all the extraneous chasing, stabbing, shooting, strangling scenes have been edited out of my nightmares, leaving only the split second where my body is transformed from living to being to corpse. Spliced together, I live through these dying flashes hundreds of times a night. And, Oprah, it’s not that bad, I promise.
On one of her recent shows, an audience member stood up and introduced himself as a former driver of Oprah’s. He then told her that once, while driving her from Atlanta International to the NAACP Woman of the Year benefit, he snorted cocaine at a red light. CUT TO: Oprah with a spear of fear lodged in her chest. But he did the queen of daytime a huge favor; he reinstated the possibility of death into her life. She needed that desperately, because no chance of death just makes for bad TV.
