Monday, January 24, 2011

The Troublefuss with Lady Bundles

The beginning of my play, born of physical compromise.  Enjoy.

wha happen!?!?!

Hello, Children.  I recently injured my back and have been bedridden like some sort of large hippo who lives in a house and has a bed and also he hurt his back.  I'm sure you all know I'm generally the picture of perfect health, so this is a crushing blow to my nearly invincible person.

I feel like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.  Or I wish I felt like him.  Because at least then I'd have a cool pair of binoculars, a chair with wheels, and some glamorous movie star looking after me.  As a side note, how undignified is it that those certain wheelchairs are called scooters?  I mean, I know they scoot you around but I feel it isn't a very sophisticated name.  Like imagine if FDR had been in a scooter instead of a wheelchair.  Just look at his chair.
That is one classy chair with wheels.  It's amazing.  Now picture FDR straddling one of those supermarket scooters with the basket in the front of it.  Now picture Eleanor Roosevelt sitting in the basket.  Now imagine Eleanor making out with a big pile of ladies.  And FDR watching.  I think I have painted you quite the historically accurate picture here.

I digress.

Back to me and Jimmy Stewart.  I'd probably be more like Bart Simpson doing the Jimmy Stewart thing.
I would definitely write a play. I haven't yet.  Since this is the first time I've been able to sit up and type,  of course the best thing to do would be to write a blog entry instead of doing constructive writing.  But if Bart could write a play while physically compromised, I don't see why I can't.

In fact, I will write a play.  I'll be back shortly to do a dramatic reading for you all. 

Thursday, January 13, 2011


Today I would like to celebrate my love for pockets.
Pockets in pants.  Timeless and classic.  Where else would men and women put their hands?  Not mention the THINGS in their hands??

Dresses with pockets.  This can save hundreds of celebrities from a horrific red carpet pose.  If you don't know how to stand on a carpet, you probably shouldn't be famous.
Why would Beyonce do this?  She looks like a drunk toothbrush.  And, no, I'm not sure what that means but it's how I feel.  So it will be.
And I know Renee is just a big stain on a carpet in the first place, but a Wonder Woman pose isn't doing her mannish upper body any favors.
I don't even know.  She's trying to be cute?  But she could also be farting.  So powerfully it is starting to propel her off the ground.  It's not a good look.

So if you don't know what to do?  Just jam your hands in your pockets!
Does it look amazing? NO!  Does it look smart?  NOT SMART.  But does it look dumb?  A little bit.  But at least their hands are warm and they're doing something with a sense of purpose.  And maybe they're scratching their itchy thighs.  They're flabby rashy scratchedy thighs.  You don't know.  And that's why it's great!  There is a sense of ~*mystery*~ inside a pocket.

Hot Pockets.  They are delicious to eat.  But also that time in LOST when Hurley threw a Hot Pocket at Ben.

Pita pockets.  It's an envelope for food.  If there's one thing I love more than a letter in an envelope, it's food.  I used to order many a pita pocket grilled chicken salad every week in New York.  Then I moved away and the restaurant closed.  Coincidence??  I think not.  I think we can all safely realize that restaurant was only open in order to serve me and sustained itself on my obsessive yet deliciously healthy obsession with ordering 3 to 4 grilled chicken salads a week.

Secret pockets.  Men's jackets usually have that nice inside pocket.  Ladies don't get those pockets.  I would like a pocket that only I know exists.  I could put really important stuff in there.  Like an emergency cookie.  Or a key to my secret ski chalet.  So I could ski in skin-tight skiwear that shows off my defined bottom, distracting other skiers who will spill their secrets all over the mountainside.
Or I could pocket a Post-It with the secret code to my secret vault inside my secret ski chalet.  What's inside my secret vault?  Another secret!  Or maybe a secret emergency cookie.  But you'll never know.

Pocket.  The word has lost all meaning.
You know what hasn't?


Saturday, January 1, 2011

imma eat you

So I saw this.

“Once a little boy sent me a charming card with a little drawing on it. I loved it. I answer all my children’s letters — sometimes very hastily — but this one I lingered over. I sent him a card and I drew a picture of a Wild Thing on it. I wrote, “Dear Jim: I loved your card.” Then I got a letter back from his mother and she said, “Jim loved your card so much he ate it.” That to me was one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received. He didn’t care that it was an original Maurice Sendak drawing or anything. He saw it, he loved it, he ate it.”

 And I thought it was just great.