In previous seasons, Yaphit, who's an engineer with the ability to get into places other members of the crew can't, developed ongoing feelings for Dr. MacFarlane, who also worked with Macdonald on his animated comedy series Family Guy hasn't revealed anything about how much the star was involved in season three, if the character will get a proper sendoff, or recast. Image courtesy of Hulu / 20th Century Studios Norm Macdonald's History with The Orville Creator Seth MacFarlane and Yaphit's History We love you and we miss you." Norm Macdonald in The Orville: New Horizons. Creator and star Seth MacFarlane posted a tease on Twitter of Macdonald's return for the upcoming episode "A Tale of Two Topas" writing, "Guess who pops up on tomorrow's episode of The Orville: New Horizons! Thanks, Norm, for leaving us Yaphit. The episode was dedicated to Macdonald's memory. His only appearance so far in the New Horizons era was in the season three premiere episode "Electric Sheep" when he tried to save Isaac ( Mark Jackson), who committed suicide due to the relentless abuse from his crewmates, still angry over the Kaylon invasion. The actor, who was involved since the series' premiere on Fox in 2017, was able to record his lines before his passing in September 2021. Not in some route-one shock jock ‘Have I triggered you?’ shit way, but like partaking in a secular mass.” For as long as I live, and laugh, I – an atheist, a superfan – will continue to pray at Norm Macdonald’s altar.One of the most popular recurring characters on Hulu's The Orville: New Horizons is the amorphous green alien Yaphit voiced by comedian Norm Macdonald. The – also very funny – writer Simon Blackwell said to me that watching Norm gave you that “glorious feeling where you’re suspended in that comic register and anything can be said. We live in complex times for comedy, when it is more policed than it used to be, and some of that is valuable, but some of it may not be conducive to the flourishing of pure funny. A deep commitment to comedy: a fuck it commitment to comedy. And that’s the key thing I love about Norm. He’d been cancelled before cancellation was a thing, sacked from SNL after refusing to stop making jokes about OJ Simpson. Later in his career he said some stuff which flirted with what we now call cancellation. He never did, but as with all great comedians, I felt I knew him anyway. I told him he’d have to come to London, but I very much hoped he could make it over. We had one exchange on Twitter, after I’d written something nice about him in this very paper, and he asked if he could see my show about my family. That sweetness is there too in his astonishing TV chatshow appearances – only Billy Connolly comes close for the greatness of these – notably in his legendary reframing on Conan of an old joke about a moth as if it were a Dostoevsky novel. That too was part of his technique, the juxtaposition between his extreme comic touchstones – “crack whore” was virtually one of his catchphrases – and his apparent sweetness. Of course the joke in Norm’s case, was often something that most people would not say. He says the joke, and then leaves – on live American TV – the longest silence, letting the laughs build simply by the force of his impossibly twinkly eyes. Watch him on Weekend Update on SNL, the gig that made him most famous. American standups are often clever and insightful and satirical and possessed of extraordinary stagecraft, but not that many of them are what I would call funny-boned: by which I mean, Eric Morecambe-boned, the ability to make you laugh while doing virtually nothing. Much as I love many American standups, Norm – who was Canadian – had something going on which I perceive is unusual in that world. “Someone says, ‘You seen that movie with Meryl Streep and the horse?’ And you go: ‘Yes.’” And here he pauses, and does another very Norm thing: he stares for a long time, nervelessly, at the audience, making them understand, just through pausing, that this is a lie, and that that is funny, before saying: “And then you think: what am I lying about over here? I stand to gain nothing from this lie.” “You ever lie for no reason at all?” he says, in his impossibly rootsy North American voice, crazily upbeat – which was so much part of his delivery, of his ability to charm but also to make the things he was talking about, often very familiar, become strange and new. Years ago – I can’t remember how, as this was before YouTube – he showed me a clip of a matinee idol-looking man at the Montreal comedy festival, doing a bit about lying. It was Frank Skinner who first brought my attention to Norm Macdonald.
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