I woke up this morning – a habit that used to infuriate nearly all of my ex-wives – and spat out a mouthful of cat hair, cigarette butts and a coupon for 20¢ off Downy Fabric Softener (not sure where that last item came from, I don't use Downy). I reached over to the nightstand and groped for the half-empty tumbler of Bacardi and Wiener Broth from the night before and slammed it down, then I lit up a Camel Straight and scratched my ass really well. The life of a bachelor can have its moments, I sleepily reflected.
My first full-fledged thought of the day, however, was about the contents of this blog. These days nearly every morning I awake from a sound sleep with some blog entry or another waving its arms in the air and screaming “Write me! Write me!” It's pretty cool, really. It saves me from having to do any real thinking during daylight hours – I somehow all did the hard work the night before while trying to ignore an erection that rather touchingly believed Salma Hayek was going to leap into bed with me at any second. BTW, ladies, this is like trying to sleep straddling a softball bat -- not very comfortable unless, I suppose, you like the game of softball a lot more than I do. Not that I'm complaining, mind you.
So today the blog post that was presented to my faintly-sputtering morning brain was about a two-movie deal I recently signed with Time Warner that depicted my life with my two lovely and talented stepdaughters. The first movie was called, I believe, The Evil Dad, and the sequel was Evil Dad 2: Dad by Dawn. Anjelica Huston played my (now ex-)wife Carmen; a dark-haired Uma Thurman was cast as Isabel, my oldest daughter; and a dark-haired Gwyneth Paltrow got the part of Cristina, my youngest. In a surprising twist, a dark-haired Paris Hilton landed the plum role of Heather Harper, the child that unexpectedly shows up in the wee hours of the morning in the second movie. Even Bruce Campbell had a cameo role as a bartender.
Oh, and I was played by Mickey Rourke. Of course.
Apparently I have Unresolved Issues lurking in the steamy insect-infested Cretaceous swamp that is my subconscious mind.
I won't bore you with the rest of the story, where the movies are tepid at the box office but become cult classics, I take to hanging around Quentin Tarantino until I discover to my utter horror that he's gay, and I have a torrid affair with Salma Hayek sans unibrow until she drops me like an ARVN rifle for Billy Bob Thornton.
Now, I don't want to sound ungrateful to my sleeping self, it is me after all, but what the hell am I supposed to do with a lame blog entry like that about a couple of movies? If I was an illustrator I could do a cartoon or something, or if I was a stand-up comic I could do wacky impersonations of the actors involved, but I'm writer for crying out loud, at least on a good day. The only explanation for such substandard fare that I can come up with is that I must have been pissed about the Downy coupon.