Writes all the things. Most of the things never write back.
I heard another ad on the radio. I think it was for a business selling windows. The ad said “Our area has a lot of severe weather. Hot. Cold. Whatever.”
I’m used to the hot and cold. It’s the whatever that scares me.
“Boy, the weather is really bad outside.”
“What is it doing?”
“I CAN’T EVEN TELL.”
I love the letter Z. Without it, eppelins would sail the skies, while ebras would roam the savannas. And who would ever attend Umba classes?
Some people help little old ladies across the street.
I help baby snapping turtles across the street.
What? It was cute. It was only one inch long. Yes, I know it will grow to be bigger.
Besides, there are more snapping turtles that need help crossing the street around here than little old ladies.
Just heard a radio news story about how a bank robber demanded money from a teller with a gun.
I think they meant a bank robber with a gun demanded money from a teller, unless they’re arming bank tellers these days. And if they’re arming bank tellers, I will be even more polite next time I go to the bank.
This does bring to mind a comic image, though.
===
I walk into the bank.
“FREEZE!” the teller says. “GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY. I HAVE A GUN, AND I KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT.”
There’s a new show on CBS called Scorpion. The ad has a line to the effect that “I assembled a team of the most brilliant people in the world. Not necessarily the most normal.”
Uh… dude? If they’re the most brilliant people in the world, BY definition they’re not the most normal. This is true of any group defined by a characteristic of being at an extreme. By that very fact, they are REMOVED from the norm.
A group of geniuses? Not normal.
A group of Olympic athletes? Not normal.
A group of billionaires? Not normal.
It’s a stupid line to use in promoting a show about a team of brilliant people, and thus it undercuts the very premise of the show.
Writers have a rare power not given to anyone else: we can bore people long after we are dead.
~ Sinclair Lewis
In keeping with the writing advice to kill your darlings, I am going to write a sequel to Peter Pan where the whole Darling family dies.
“NO! NOT WENDY!” Peter Pan wails.
Yes, Peter. ALL the Darlings.
The surprise ending? It was Tinker Bell who did it.
An ad on the radio promised if I missed their deal, I would be kicking myself in the head.
Do I have to stand on a ladder for that?
Bacon.
Lettuce.
Tomato.
Mayo.
Whole wheat.
Salt.
Pepper.
Bliss.