Saturday, February 26, 2011

Super Dooper

I recently added protein bars to my workout regiment.  Even protein shakes.  "How many egg whites?!-- I'm not throwing away the yolks."  (High cholesterol's gotten such a bad rap) ...  "But why so much protein?"  I'm glad you asked: A collection of pens and notebooks can get pretty heavy, see?  I gotta bulk up, put on some muscle.  "Wow!  You're stronger than a locomotive!"  Great, now I'll have to be a super hero, too.  "I don't look good in capes (Tights are another story)-- and boots get me tired." Oh well, just part of the job, I guess... "Please, oh please, get my cat down from that tall building!"  I'll fly you to the nearest pet store instead.  "How's your new cat?"  If it's my civic duty to be a super hero, then that's what I'll have to be.  Writing assignments will have to wait...  Good thing I'm not afraid of heights.  Really.  "Whatever you do, don't look down..."  Too late: "Why is the sky spinning?"  Maybe I'll carry some paper bags with me after all... Just in case...

Monday, February 21, 2011

A Mouse in the House

 I need a mouse.  If not, I won't be able to write for hours on end.  Then I'll never finish my current project.  "Maybe you have attention deficit."  I do NOT have attention defi-- Care for some coffee?  Look, I need a mouse. No, not as a writing partner-- I've tried those already.  I need the kind of mouse that'll help out my wrist.  See, if I type too long without the help of the peripheral device, my wrist gets overworked on the laptop.  It gets stiff, exhausted, if you will (if you will WHAT?!)... Next thing you know, I'll find myself in an Emergency Room.  "My wrist has a boo-boo, Doc." I don't have the time, nor the stomach, to end up in ER (Why's it so depressing in there?).  "My wrist is killing me!  Somebody help me!"  Not only will my writing be affected, so will my shooting stroke.  See, I figure to be in one of those celebrity basketball games any day now (you don't actually have to be a celebrity, do you?).  "You want me to play?-- I have a sore wrist!"  If I'm less than 110%, I don't play well.  I'm used to having a limp wrist, er, flexible wrist. (For my jumpshot.)  That's it, I'm going to buy a mouse... Wait a minute, what if they just mopped the floors at the local store?  "Slippery when wet."  Great, all I need is to break my femur.  That's a really long bone.  In the leg.  The right leg.  And the left.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Beep! Beep!

Okay, so my mind is clear and I'm ready to write the Great American Screenplay when my daughter poses a interesting question to me: "Daddy, will you teach me to drive?"  Huh?  (It took smelling salts to revive me).  "How 'bout a Barbie doll instead?-- an ice cream cone!"  She's still in 3rd grade, right?  "Waddya mean you're in high school?!--  Since when?!  Nobody told me!"  (No wonder she hasn't invited me to "Donuts with Daddy" lately) I'll have to check her birth certificate.  Beside, teens aren't allowed  to drive 'til they turn 35... (I'm sure I read that somewhere.)  "Daddy... please!"  Why she doesn't prefer a skateboard, I'll never know...  Or those shoes with wheels on them.  Good thing I came up with an alternative: "Take the subway instead."  (Okay, so we live in Los Angeles.) I prefer to build the subway myself rather than have her drive.  Look, it's not that I don't trust my daughter, but... "I don't trust my daughter."  She's not ready to take on such a responsibility (She once let her goldfish die!).  Think about it, she doesn't even know how to change the timing belt on a car, and she wants to drive?!  Please.  "Not 'til you rebuild an engine, young lady."  Okay, okay, I'll a make a deal with her: I'll teach my only daughter to drive under one condition: "As long as our insurance doesn't go up, I'll let you drive."  That sounds fair, right?  "Daddy!"

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Shall We Dance?

Okay, so my wife wants to go dancing this weekend... Something about Valentine's Day...  I'm not so sure.  I mean, dancing can be hazardous to one's health.  First, the bright lights-- they'll surely blind me.  "Hey, where'd everybody go?!" And the booming music-- "I can't hear you!"  I don't want to suffer hearing loss and have to wear one of those clunky hearing aides... "It doesn't match my skin tone!"  Here's another concern: What if my dance moves are so mesmerizing that talent scouts flood the place.  "We'd like you dance on TV."  I don't have time for that-- I have a writing career to consider!  And let's not forget those gigantic disco balls... If one of those things falls on my head, I'll surely suffer a debilitating concussion.  "Who am I?  Where am I?"  As you can see, a night of dancing can bring dire consequences.  That's it, I'm putting my foot down.  I'll have to tell the wife that dancing is out.  O-U-T-- Out!  I'll be honest with her, straightforward... Maybe I"ll write her a note: "My dearest love, I've been kidnapped by a gang of (space) aliens and will have to miss the dance..."  Yeah, that should do the trick...  

Monday, February 7, 2011

We've Got (Junk) Mail!

I love junk mail.  I mean, somebody has to, right?  And stop calling it junk, will ya?  That's not nice, not nice at all...  It's amazing when you consider that so many thoughtful people take time out from their busy schedules to offer us money, credit cards, even life insurance.  "Is there something I should know, Doc?"  There's this recurring dream where I execute a beautiful swan dive into a pool filled with mail addressed to me.  "Oh, what form, ladies and gentlemen!-- That deserves a 10!" (I wonder if that's how Greg Louganis got his start) As I make my way  to the surface, a big, silly  grin covers my face as I'm enveloped by, that's right-- envelopes.  As I peel them off my sinewy, sun-baked skin, I realize: "They like me.  They really, really like me!"  I swear, it's like being one of the Beatles in '64 (not that I was around back then) Conversely, stop for a moment and think of all the abuse that such correspondence endures on a daily basis: scorn, hate, ridicule.  How would you like it if that was you, huh?   Huh?!  What if that was you facing a bleak demise:  "No, not that!  Not the shredder!  Anything but the shredder!  Nooooooo!"

Friday, February 4, 2011

Where's The Soap?

Not that I spend hours watching soap operas, but... How is it everybody's a surgeon or high-powered attorney on those soaps?  Everybody... "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we'll prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that my client's long-lost evil twin committed this crime, right before 'he' became a 'she'."  Don't any of the townsfolk settle on a telemarketing career?  Or report to work at the local doughnut shop?  "Apple fritter coming right up!"  Again, I don't watch soaps, honest (ignore the crossed fingers behind my back).   But I've been told that only pretty people are allowed on those shows...  "Ugly Duckings Keep Out." Yeah, and people with an overbite are hauled away, never to be seen again.  Pity the fool who dares to break out with a pimple.  "Arrest that whitehead!"  I think it's safe to say that soap operas do not reflect the real world... I mean, those guys get six-packs just by bending over to tie their shoes.  And the women, they're all size zeroes... "I ate too much... a baby carrot."   Heck, even the town bum walks around in designer suits.  "Like my shirt?"  It's also noted that sooner or later everybody ends up in the same hospital, too, on death's doorstep... "Is this covered by Obama Care?"  I'm just glad I don't watch those silly soaps... I've got better things to focus on... like reality TV...  

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

I smell smoke

Not that I have any regrets about being a writer, but... I wouldn't mind being a firefighter.  I could keep track of the Dalmation's spots... "I know how to count by 2's, Chief.  Even 4's."  I could also be in charge of cooking "Want jelly on that sandwich, fellas?"  Yes, I'd be an outstanding fireman, with some conditions, of course.  Like, I wouldn't actually go out and fight those dangerous blazes.  You see, smoke might get in my eyes... "My contacts!" But I'm sure the fire chief would understand.  I mean, somebody's got to wash the firetrucks, right?  "Who took the waterhose?" Why, I could even teach CPR (I hear those mannequins are pretty cute these days)...  About the only drawback to firefighting that I see is having to stay overnight at the firehouse.  See, I have this favorite blanky and... "Don't suck your thumb!" What if the guys tease me... They wouldn't do that, would they?  "You miss your mommy?" Now that I think about it, maybe I'll just stick to writing... or... "How much do pilots make?"