Glenn remembers legendary NFL broadcaster Frank Gifford

Legendary NFL broadcaster Frank Gifford passed away over the weekend at 84 years old. On radio Monday morning, Glenn delivered a touching tribute to Frank Gifford and shared an incredible story of what Frank did for fellow broadcaster Howard Cosell when Cosell was on death's door.

Below is a rush transcript of this segment, it may contain errors:

GLENN: So yesterday morning, I heard that Frank Gifford died. And I was -- I was glad for him. But I was sad for Kathie Lee and the children.

Kathie Lee Gifford is a good friend of mine. And Tania and I were quite sad yesterday. The -- I went over to Kathie Lee and Frank's house. Oh, this must have been about four years ago. And we had dinner together. And I had never met Frank before. And I hope I'm not telling things out of school. Am I? Jeffy, should I not?

JEFFY: I couldn't find it anywhere.

GLENN: Okay. He was just getting old. And he had a hard time, you know, remembering some things while he was telling it. And I watched him -- I watched him struggle with his memory. And it was tragically sad. Tragically sad. And Kathie Lee was so graceful with it and so unbelievably loving. And Frank, Frank brought me into his office. His trophy room. And I wish the guy -- I wish you guys would have been with me. Because it didn't mean anything to me. But it was award after award after award after award.

JEFFY: Just the Hall of Fame NFL is all.

STU: A legend.

GLENN: And I didn't know anything about -- I know he played for the giants. And I knew he was part of Monday night football. But I didn't know anything else about his career because I don't follow football. But watching him in the room telling the stories of what football used to be like. Then we sat down to dinner, and I talked to him about Monday Night Football. And this man affected our culture.

I remember Monday Night Football with my father. I remember the sound of it and the -- I just -- Monday night in my house was Monday Night Football. That was like that for 70 percent of the country.

When they talked about the debate being the biggest debate ever, being this huge thing. That had a 24-share.

PAT: It had a 16-share.

GLENN: Sorry. Sixteen-share.

Think how big. Everybody was talking about that. Every Monday night, Frank Gifford and Howard Cosell and Don Meredith had a 70-share.

PAT: Yeah. The 16-share means that 16 percent of American TVs are tuned into that event at that moment. This is 70 percent of all TVs tuned into Monday Night Football.

GLENN: This is 70. Okay. So he was telling the story and he said, Glenn, wherever we went, we changed the conversation for two days. Everybody was talking about Monday Night Football, what was going to happen that night. And everybody talked about what we said the day before.

Nobody that is alive today has that kind of experience. Nobody.

So here's a guy who lived a life that no one has lived. Just a rare, rare person.

I talked to him a little bit about Howard Cosell. And I said, what was he like? He said, not a nice person. Not a nice person. He said, nobody really liked Howard. And he said, it was tragically sad. He said, Howard, when he was -- when he was kicked off of television, it was because he said something like, look at him he runs like a little monkey or something. Something like that.

PAT: Yeah.

GLENN: And Howard, apparently, according to Frank, did not mean it this way at all.

PAT: Not a racist guy.

GLENN: No, he's not.

PAT: Best friends with Muhammad Ali. How racist -- you know, Muhammad Ali loved him.

GLENN: He said when that happened -- he told me the story of when that happened and the times -- he started telling stories about Monday Night Football. And the times that they would drink during the commercials. And he said, we were drunk almost every single Monday night.

PAT: You're not kidding.

GLENN: No. No. He said they were hammered. The hosts.

PAT: Like Frank and Howard and Dan and Don were hammered?

GLENN: He said they were hammered.

STU: We have to try that on this show.

GLENN: Yeah. He said, every Monday night, we were hammered. He said, however, there was one night that we were more hammered than usual. And he said -- I don't remember which one of them threw up in a garbage can at their feet on the air. And the cameraman just -- one of them was talking and kind of gave a sign like, I think I'm going to hurl. So they switched over to someone else. And he said, we could hear. I don't know if Americans could hear it. He said, but we could hear him vomiting, he was so hammered.

STU: Oops.

GLENN: And he said, so the night that this happened, he said, you know, it's a live broadcast with 70 percent of all televisions listening and watching. And he said -- so there's constant arguing in our ears and telling us what to do and where to go and everything else. And he says, it's local and it's New York. And he said, and Howard said, what he said. Look at him he's running like a little monkey or whatever. And he said, everything became totally silent. He said nobody said anything. Nobody on the floor. Everybody's eyes just looked at Howard like, good God Almighty, man, what did you just say? And he said, then finally the silence was broken by somebody in our ear that said, go to commercial now!

He said, we went to commercial. And New York just went nuts. And said, Howard, you have to apologize. You have to -- you know, and Howard didn't understand what he said. He said -- he's like, I'm a friend of Muhammad Ali. He said, I'm the best friend to some of the biggest athletes in America. And I made them

STU: And his defense was something like that, he called his kids monkeys. His grandkids monkeys because they ran very fast. And that's what he was trying to get across.

JEFFY: Right.

GLENN: At that time, because Howard was not a likable person, nobody -- nobody talked to him.

STU: Nobody defended him. Nobody had his back.

GLENN: Nobody defended him. He was completely alone. So he tells me as Howard is getting close to dying. He's really on death's doorstep. He calls and leaves a message for Frank and says, Frank, I don't understand. And he's crying. I don't understand what happened to all my friends. I don't understand. Not knowing that he didn't have any friends. He just had people that were glomming on to him because he was Howard Cosell. And he said, I don't understand what happened. He said, I'm alone. Nobody will talk to me. I'm dying, Frank. Will you please come and visit me?

He almost didn't, and Kathie Lee said, it's the Christian thing you do. You got to do it. He said, he was a horrible guy to me. You know, and a horrible guy to everybody. But he did. And Frank told me, it was the best thing he ever did. He said, he went and he talked to him and sat with him. And he said he cried and cried and cried and didn't know -- really didn't understand. He went and visited him every week until he died. And nobody -- nobody knew what was going on. But even Howard's family didn't come to visit him. And it was in the end, just Frank Gifford, that went and did the right thing and comforted a man who was in his last days.

I am truly sorry for the loss of Frank Gifford because of his family. His family is wonderful. His wife is remarkable. Just a remarkable woman. And Frank Gifford was one hell of a guy.

Featured Image: NEW YORK - MARCH 25: Former professional football player Frank Gifford attends the Broadway opening of "Come Fly Away" at the Marriott Marquis on March 25, 2010 in New York City. (Photo by Mike Coppola/Getty Images)

On Wednesday's TV show, Glenn Beck sat down with radio show host, author, political commentator, and film critic, Michael Medved.

Michael had an interesting prediction for the 2020 election outcome: a brokered convention by the DNC will usher in former First Lady Michelle Obama to run against President Donald Trump.

Watch the video below to hear why he's making this surprising forecast:

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On Thursday's "Glenn Beck Radio Program," BlazeTV's White House correspondent Jon Miller described the current situation in Virginia after Gov. Ralph Northam (D) declared a state of emergency and banned people carrying guns at Capitol Square just days before a pro-Second-Amendment rally scheduled on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

Jon told Glenn that Gov. Northam and the Virginia Legislature are "trying to deprive the people of their Second Amendment rights" but the citizens of Virginia are "rising up" to defend their constitutional rights.

"I do think this is the flashpoint," Jon said. "They [Virginia lawmakers] are saying, 'You cannot exercise your rights ... and instead of trying to de-escalate the situation, we are putting pressure. We're trying to escalate it and we're trying to enrage the citizenry even more'."

Glenn noted how Gov. Northam initially blamed the threat of violence from Antifa for his decision to ban weapons but quickly changed his narrative to blame "white supremacists" to vilify the people who are standing up for the Second Amendment and the Constitution.

"What he's doing is, he's making all all the law-abiding citizens of Virginia into white supremacists," Glenn said.

"Sadly, that's exactly right," Jon replied. "And I think he knows exactly what he's doing."

Watch the video to catch more of the conversation below:

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Ryan: Trump Louisiana Finale

Photo by Jim Dale

Part One. Part Two. Part Three.

At the end of Trump rallies, I would throw on my Carhartt jacket, sneak out of the press area, then blend in with everyone as they left, filing out through swinging doors.

Often, someone held the door open for me. Just 30 minutes earlier, the same person had most likely had most likely hissed at me for being a journalist. And now they were Sunday smiles and "Oh, yes, thank you, sir" like some redneck concierge.

People flooded out of the arena with the stupidity of a fire drill mishap, desperate to survive.

The air smacked you as soon as you crossed the threshold, back into Louisiana. And the lawn was a wasteland of camping chairs and coolers and shopping bags and to-go containers and soda cans and articles of clothing and even a few tents.

In Monroe, in the dark, the Trump supporters bobbled over mounds of waste like elephants trying to tiptoe. And the trash was as neutral to them as concrete or grass. They plodded over it because it, an object, had somehow gotten in their way.

It did not matter that they were responsible for this wreckage.Out in the sharp-edged moonlight, rally-goers hooted and yapped and boogied and danced, and the bbq food truck was all smoke and paper plates.

They were even more pumped than they had been before the rally, like 6,000 eight year olds who'd been chugging Mountain Dew for hours. Which made Donald Trump the father, the trooper, God of the Underworld, Mr. Elite, Sheriff on high horse, the AR-15 sticker of the family.

Ritualistic mayhem, all at once. And, there in Louisiana, Trump's supporters had gotten a taste of it. They were all so happy. It bordered on rage.

Still, I could not imagine their view of America. Worse, after a day of strange hostilities, I did not care.

My highest priority, my job as a reporter, was to care. To understand them and the world that they inhabit. But I did not give a damn and I never wanted to come back.

Worst of all, I would be back. In less than a week.

Was this how dogs felt on the 4th of July? Hunched in a corner while everyone else gets drunk and launches wailing light into the sky? configurations of blue and red and white.

It was 10:00 p.m. and we'd been traveling since 11:00 a.m., and we still had 5 hours to go and all I wanted was a home, my home, any home, just not here, in the cold sweat of this nowhere. Grey-mangled sky. No evidence of planes or satellites or any proof of modern-day. Just century-old bridges that trains shuffled over one clack at a time.

And casinos, all spangles and neon like the 1960s in Las Vegas. Kitchy and dumb, too tacky for lighthearted gambling. And only in the nicer cities, like Shreveport, which is not nice at all.

And swamp. Black water that rarely shimmered. Inhabited by gadflies and leeches and not one single fish that was pretty.

Full of alligators, and other killing types. The storks gnawing on frogs, the vultures never hungry. The coyotes with nobody to stop them and so much land to themselves. The roaches in the wild, like tiny wildebeests.

Then, the occasional deer carcass on the side of the road, eyes splayed as if distracted, tongue out, relaxed but empty. The diseased willows like skeletons in hairnets. The owls that never quit staring. A million facets of wilderness that would outlive us all.

Because Nature has poise. It thrives and is original.

Because silence is impossible. Even in an anechoic chamber, perfectly soundproofed, you can hear your own heartbeat, steady as a drum. A never-ending war.

I put "Headache" by Grouper on repeat as we glided west. We were deadlocked to asphalt, rubber over tarface.

And I thought about lines from a Rita Dove poem titled "I have been a stranger in a strange land"

He was off cataloging the universe, probably,
pretending he could organize
what was clearly someone else's chaos.

Wasn't that exactly what I was doing? Looking for an impossible answer, examining every single accident, eager for meaning? telling myself, "If it happens and matters the next year, in America, I want to be there, or to know what it means. I owe it to whoever cares to listen."

Humans are collectors and I had gone overboard.

Because maybe this wasn't even my home. These landmarks, what did they mean? Was I obvious here? When I smiled, did I trick them into believing that I felt some vague sense of approval? Or did my expressions betray me?

Out in all that garbage-streaked emptiness — despite the occasional burst of passing halogen — I couldn't tell if everything we encountered was haunted or just old, derelict, broken, useless. One never-ending landfill.

Around those parts, they'd made everything into junk. Homes. Roads. Glass. Nature. Life itself, they made into junk.

I cringed as we passed yet another deer carcass mounded on the side of the road.

As written in Job 35:11,

Who teaches us more than the beasts of the earth and makes us wiser than the birds in the sky?

Nobody. Look at nature and you feel something powerful. Look at an animal, in all of its untamable majesty, and you capture a deep love, all swept up in the power of creation. But, here, all I saw were poor creatures who people had slammed into and kept driving. Driving to where? For what reason? What exactly was so important that they left a trail of dead animals behind them?

So I crossed myself dolorously and said an "Our Father" and recited a stanza from Charles Bukowski's "The Laughing Heart"

you can't beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.

Out here, nothing but darkness. Needing some light, by God. Give me something better than a Moon that hides like an underfed coward.

Jade told me about some of the more traumatic things she'd seen while working at the State Fair.

"Bro, they pull roaches out of the iced lemonade jugs and act like nothing happened."

"All right but what about the corn dogs?"

"You do not want to know, little bro."

She looked around in the quiet. "Back in the day, the Louisiana Congress refused to raise the drinking age from 18 to 21," she said. "They didn't want to lose all that drunk gambler money. So the federal government cut off funding to highways."

We glided through moon-pale landscape for an hour before I realized what she had meant. That there weren't any light poles or billboards along the road. Nothing to guide us or distract us. Just us, alone. And it felt like outer space had collapsed, swallowed us like jellybeans.

Like two teenagers playing a prank on the universe.

In the cozy Subaru Crosstrek, in the old wild night, brimming with the uncertainty of life and the nonchalance of failure, we paraded ourselves back to Dallas. Alive in the river silence that follows us everywhere.

New installments come Mondays and Thursdays. Next, the Iowa caucuses. Check out my Twitter. Email me at kryan@blazemedia.com

The Iowa primary is just around the corner, and concerns of election interference from the last presidential election still loom. Back in 2016, The Associated Press found that a majority of U.S. elections systems still use Windows 7 as an operating system, making them highly susceptible to bugs and errors. And last year, a Mississippi voter tried multiple times to vote for the candidate of his choice, but the system continuously switched his vote to the other candidate. It's pretty clear: America's voting systems desperately need an update.

That's where blockchain voting comes in.

Blockchain voting is a record-keeping system that's 100% verifiable and nearly impossible to hack. Blockchain, the newest innovation in cybersecurity, is set to grow into a $20 billion industry by 2025. Its genius is in its decentralized nature, distributing information throughout a network of computers, requiring would-be hackers to infiltrate a much larger system. Infiltrating multiple access points spread across many computers requires a significant amount of computing power, which often costs more than hackers expect to get in return.

Blockchain voting wouldn't allow for many weak spots. For instance, Voatz, arguably the leading mobile voting platform, requires a person to take a picture of their government-issued ID and a picture of themselves before voting (a feature, of course, not present in vote-by-mail, where the only form of identity verification is a handwritten signature, which is easily forgeable). Voters select their choices and hit submit. They then receive an immediate receipt of their choices via email, another security feature not present in vote-by-mail, or even in-person voting. And because the system operates on blockchain technology, it's nearly impossible to tamper with.

Votes are then tabulated, and the election results are published, providing a paper trail, which is a top priority for elections security experts.

The benefits of blockchain voting can't be dismissed. Folks can cast their vote from the comfort of their homes, offices, etc., vastly increasing the number of people who can participate in the electoral process. Two to three-hour lines at polling places, which often deter voters, would become significantly diminished.

Even outside of the voting increase, the upsides are manifold. Thanks to the photo identification requirements, voter fraud—whether real or merely suspected—would be eliminated. The environment would win, too, since we'd no longer be wasting paper on mail-in ballots. Moreover, the financial burden on election offices would be alleviated, because there's decreased staff time spent on the election, saving the taxpayer money.

From Oregon to West Virginia, elections offices have already implemented blockchain voting, and the results have been highly positive. For example, the city of Denver utilized mobile voting for overseas voters in their 2019 municipal elections. The system was secure and free of technical errors, and participants reported that it was very user-friendly. Utah County used the same system for their 2019 primary and general elections. An independent audit revealed that every vote that was cast on the app was counted and counted correctly. These successful test cases are laying the groundwork for even larger expansions of the program in 2020.

With this vital switch, our elections become significantly more secure, accurate, and efficient. But right now, our election infrastructure is a sitting duck for manipulation. Our current lack of election integrity undermines the results of both local and national elections, fans the flames of partisanship, and zaps voter confidence in the democratic system. While there's never a silver bullet or quick fix to those kinds of things, blockchain voting would push us much closer to a solution than anything else.

Chris Harelson is the Executive Director at Prosperity Council and a Young Voices contributor.