There is something supremely reassuring about television; the worst is always yet to come.

One does not allow the plumbers to decide the temperature, depth and timing of a bath.

Mr. Presley has no discernible singing ability. His specialty is rhythm songs which he renders in an undistinguished whine; his phrasing, if it can be called that, consists of the stereotyped variations that go with a beginner's aria in a bathroom. For the ear, he is an unutterable bore.

Commercials on television are similar to sex and taxes; the more talk there is about them, the less likely they are to be curbed.

Mr. Presley has no discernible singing ability . . . For the ear he is an unutterable bore, not nearly so talented as Frank Sinatra back in the latter's rather hysterical days at the Paramount Theater.

It's like being called up in the draft. The peculiar joy of hemorrhaging without bleeding starts when the evil little red light glows on the monstrous camera.

There is something supremely reassuring about television; the worst is always yet to come.