Good riddance Sidney Sheldon.

Prolific author Sidney Sheldon died today at 89. Sure, he wrote tons of books and sitcoms like "I Dream of Jeannie" and rose from nothing out of the Depression.

But I, for one, say good riddance.

Here's why:

I read only classic novels ... you only have so much time on the planet and you want to hedge your bets. Basically, I don't want to devote a lot of time and emotion to books that may suck.

So, the few times I dabble in fiction, I limit myself to the classics ... the theory being that that odds are in my favor that it won't suck.

But one time I slipped, about 10 years ago, and read Sidney Sheldon's "The Doomsday Conspiracy." It was like an early ticket to Depends, mental failure and the other afflictions of old age we all have to look forward to.

I felt stupid for having read it. The entire book, kind of a sci-fi "thriller," unfolded like a Scooby-Doo episode where, at the end, we find out Old Man Dithers was behind the funny noises in the haunted house.

I vowed at that moment never to read anything bu the classics again and still lament the time Sheldon took from my life.

I hate you Sidney Sheldon.