Why does this intense feeling of guilt wash over me whenever I finally sit down (or prance about, often) to write after a long hiatus? It’s like I owe someone something. (Well, Fred claims I owe him $20 for that bet the other day, but I stand by my position. Donald Rumsfeld resembles a rutabaga more than Donald Trump does.) On a side note, I’ve noticed that I’ve been regularly getting at least two hits a day over the past month, despite having not a single update in that whole time. I must just be that cool. So I had this quasi promise-thing to fulfill, and I blew it. My “Over the next week or so” became “over the next month or so,” and the child I was babysitting the other day became a savage cowbell-wielding sasquatch, with a penchant for expensive chocolate. Boy, were his parents upset when they came home! I’m sure they’ll drop the charges soon enough. But until then, please refer to me as “Sir Commodore.” In fact, please do so until further notice. It makes me feel all warm and squishy inside. So…right. Where was I? Oh, I remember. Making fun of you. No, not you – the other one. All your limbs are abarticular and your lugubrious face looks like the underside of a dung beetle, which makes me wonder if dung beetles are born with innate inferiority complexes due to their unfortunate name, that is to say, would a praying mantis make fun of the dung beetles – well not a whole gang of them, maybe just one, since a whole gang of dung beetles could be downright dangerous – and by all this, what I mean to say is you’re a big jerk with way too much experience in nanolithography than is reasonable and healthy. Yeah.
Now that I’ve dealt with the gobs of guilt welling up around me like
cream soda, I can get around to the task at hand. Which is, of course to present my new script for either a screenplay for a romantic comedy or a deodorant commercial. I’m not sure yet:
CARL: Oh, Nancy!
NANCY: What Carl, what is it? Why do you insist on eating soap? Must you hurt me so?
CARL: Yes! (Carl cackles.)
Yes I must! (Carl pulls off a mask. He loses an eye in the process. He now looks like a man without his left eye.)
NANCY: (Screams in fear.)
CARL: (Screams in pain.)
CHEESE: (Stands alone.)
And, cut! I may have to fire the cheese. He’s been trashing his trailer nightly and I won’t put up with it for one more minute.