Sunday, March 09, 2008
The (triumphant?) Return of Scruffy Love
Ahh. Can of pop. Keyboard. Room filled with sounds of little cooling fans, hard drive activity, cats barfing. It's Blog posting time! And it's not even three A.M. yet!
It's been a while. Seems as though updates have been coming less frequently lately. That's because they have been coming less frequently lately. My daddy taught me that. Here are some excuses, and a bit of cut-and-paste!
I mean, uh... How about a droll observation of life's little neuroses, and a peck of original material? Better marketing, that.
Has this ever happened to you? You're at work, or in the shower, or both, and you come up with this really great idea for a post on the Blog of Stupid that reveals itself to be complete sparrowfart when it comes time to write it down?
It's happened to me.
I'll be with friends or family or both, and we'll be laughing our cockles off about some idea or bit of dialogue:
"And so my hat tells me to stop yelling at my violin and fill it with toothpaste if I want to run for President!"
"Har har! Right, and then--and then--!" (falls face first into plate of curry chicken in fits of mirth)
"Ha ha ha ha! Nobody likes Donald Trump!"
"And my Xbox keeps catching on fire!"
"Curry! Chicken! " (snort)
Yeah, and it goes on like this until you're convinced you have a spot of pure genius on your hands and you can't wait to get home and wipe it off on the keyboard.
Unfortunately, by the time you've dried your eyes and gotten the peas out of your nose, you can't remember what the hell was so funny about the dialogue. Or more often, you've forgotten it entirely. Or realized that the funny part was the voices and accents and the curry.
And then you feel like a moron.
Why not try describing it anyway? you think to yourself. It was pretty funny, and nobody's going to be fact-checking. You figure you may as well, and posts like this are born.
The interesting thing is that it happens to me right in the middle of stories, too.
"Hey, this is a great start!" I'll mumble into my plate full of sausages. "You're going to love it!" Then, poking them jovially: "You guys are such nice sausages. I shall sing you a song!" When I'm done with that, enough time has passed to completely corrode my beneficent view of my latest work.
"It's crap! Lookit this---three paragraphs, and not one funny thing in 'em! You lousy sausages--" I start, but they're gone too. "Rotten little..." (incoherent)
More often than not, this story ends up as five separate little Microsoft Word documents tossed angrily into a folder on my hard disk somewhere, and I only look at them later when I want to prove to someone that I can begin a story as well as the next guy.
Remember Scruffy Love? Well, I had big plans for that, once, but once I squeezed a few drops of idea out of it, it went flat. Ah well. I shall instead edit out the good stuff, and put it on the Blog! Think of it as "Certified Pre-Written" material: almost as good, and a lot cheaper!
Here is a scene where Thurgood Bastardson (the Antagonist) is attempting to convince Buck Studson (the throbbing male Protagonist) that Cassidy Swoony (the bodacious and airheaded female Love Interest) does not love him. It's a dirty trick, yes, but fortunately Buck is protected by a thick layer of obliviousness, and Bastardson doesn't get very far.
“Yes, the very one. Do you also remember the conversation you and the Swoony woman had?”
“The recollection of that glorious time,” Buck said, unhinging his knees and thrusting his Buckhood forward, “is as the initials of lovers carved just yesterday into the vital bark of a thriving tree!”
“It, uh, was yesterday, Studson.”
“Ha! Then I gain the upper hand, Bastardson!” said Buck, standing and thrusting in triumph. “I shall now refer to thee solely by thy last name, in order that I may patronize thee with my tone.”
Thurgood Bastardson stomped his feet and shook his fists. This wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. This man, this willfully willful man, possessed powers of obliviousness whose true bulk lay concealed beneath his hairy surface, like stupid icebergs in a sea of irrational thought.
“That’s not the point, fool! The point is that Cassidy Swoony loves another man!”
Buck stopped his victory thrust in mid-tilt. His piercing gaze of blue ice skated over Bastardson’s twisted visage like a pack of skate-wolves.
“Other? Of course. What you say is truth. I am that other man. I am the only one in whom she feels secure,” he said, but his voice carried an undertone of uncertainty that did not go unnoticed by Bastardson. He pressed in, meaning to clear the penguins off Buck’s icebergs one by one with his mental shotgun of deception. He chuckled.
“Oh, I think you know what I mean. Throw your mind back, Studson, and you will recall one particular line of your dialogue. It was when you remarked how wonderful it was to find someone who understood you. Do you remember what she said?”
“As if it were lover’s initials--”
“Yes or no!”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And what did she say, Studson? Tell me what she said!” Bastardson screamed. He was really working himself up, face red, hands shaking feverishly.
“She remarked that she found rabbits particularly cute.”
“Aye. Before that, she turned her face upon mine and told me with feeling that there was a man out there yet who could do the same for her.” Buck said steadily. He nodded and pointed to himself. “Me.”
“Arrogant, arrogant man!” Bastardson shook his head. He slammed his fist down onto their table, upsetting the salt shaker and the checkers. “You merely assumed it was you? You just thought that since she happened to be speaking to you, she was speaking about you? The folly! You must allow me a chuckle!”
Before Buck could answer, he took one. It tumbled around the room like a sack of malicious ferrets. Finishing up, he wiped his streaming eyes and glared levelly at Buck.
“She’s a nice woman. A lady. Ladies don’t offer their hearts to savage, uncultured cowboys, Studson. You’ll have to learn sooner or later that this is the way the world works.”
“We constructed large quantities of love! Right there in the birch grove!”
“She screamed my name over and over again upon her climax!”
“Autonomic guilt reaction.”
“She told me that if she could cut off one of her legs, she would do so that I might always have it with me!”
“Post-coital crazy talk. Means nothing.”
And that's where I seem to have puttered out. I still have a few pages of potentially salvagable material, if anyone's interested. Indulge in Stupidity if that seems like a good idea to you. We forgetful, sausage-talkers can use all the encouragement we can get.
Posted by Paul FooDaddy Brand at 12:18 AM