New rule: If I’m going on a trip via Jet Blue, no celebrities are allowed to die.

I’m not kidding.  I’ll follow them around ahead of time and make sure they’re in good health.  Peter O’Toole, Chuck Berry, Wilford Brimley, Monica Bellucci.

(Yes, that’s right.  Monica Bellucci.  She’s getting on in years, and she requires constant supervision.  No you shut up.)

The Jet Blue thing is an important part of this equation, because they’re an economy airline that has satellite TVs at every seat.  So if you get tired of reading on the flight you can flip on CNN or MSNBC.

Which is completely useless if a celebrity died the night before, because you’ll learn two things about the state of the world: Jack and Squat.  No world events.  No business updates.  Instead, it’ll be clips upon clips of movies, interviews, and award ceremonies with some dead famous person.

Bob Hope was a particularly annoying choice, because, I’m sorry, didn’t we all finish mourning him about ten years ago?

I could have sworn that everyone in the United States put on black clothing sometime around his 90th birthday bash on ABC, where he was carried onstage in a wheelbarrow and his opening monologue went something like this:

“Urrgh.  Acckkghh.”

Then he was carried off again and Brooke Shields appeared to do something perky for an hour.

That’s when we all felt his loss, and talked amongst ourselves about his wit, his charm, and his hilarious antics in movies like Road to Lithuania or whatever.  Last week?  Purely ceremonial.

I’ll tell you one thing:  I don’t believe in taking unnecessary risks.  I’m staying put in my own lovely city at least until Ronald Reagan kicks it.