My Andy Problem

Andy Rooney is sitting in my living room cursing under his breath.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
I had spotted him wandering around my neighborhood and invited him inside, afraid he might get arrested. I gave him a cold beer and tried to be a good listener. He just kept moaning and holding his 92 year old head.
"They practically threw me out. You watch. Some 28 year old pretty boy will take my spot. They'll put Erin Burnette in there. Airheads. None of them have my insights, my experience, my dry wit. Don't you just savor my wit?"
I nodded, although to be truthful, last few years I've been watching Sunday night football previews. I didn't tell him that. After about a half hour of whining, he lay back and dozed off. Then it hit me. What if he never woke up? What if he croaks on my couch and there's an investigation? He's the beloved Andy Rooney; of course they'll be an investigation. What if they do an autopsy and discover I served him tainted beer? Will I be prosecuted? I can't do time. My sinuses will clog up. Why didn't I just leave him out there wandering like I did William Shatner before his comeback?
I watched him snoring like a chain saw, holding my breath. Should I call Larry King and ask for advice? I hate to admit it, but after all those decades I was getting kind of tired of Andy's raspy voice. And Erin Burnette is pretty hot.
Another problem: if he wakes up, is it time for his medication? If he doesn't have any with him, do I offer him mine? I'm guessing his nose gets stuffed up too.