So you guys are mad at each other again. Big news. My inbox is full of septuagenarian whining:

"He didn't invite me to my wedding."

"He didn't show up to my wedding."

I wasn't even invited to the wedding. Didn't bother me. I sent a gift anyway (BTW George, did you get that Netflix subscription?)

Did I ever tell you about that key grip on "In Search Of"? Smelled like lox. Spit when he talked. Needless to say, we didn't get along. You know what I don't do 30 years later?

TALK TO HIM!

You guys obviously rub each other the wrong way. Here's my advice. Don't go to couples therapy. Don't go to each other's roasts. Don't snipe at each other in the media. Here's what you do:

LEAVE EACH OTHER ALONE!

You guys have maybe another five years on this planet (I've seen how you eat). You want to spend it griping about the sixties? I don't have time for this. I've got old naked women to photograph. If you two want to fight, leave me out of it. I don't even work with you guys anymore.

Honestly, it's like junior high lasted 60 years.