Warm rubber rolls to a stop on the California/Arizona border. The horizon tugging on the burnt orange sun, two United State Customs Officials stand chatting. In the Tahoe window is framed a face. The mirror-polished lenses of sunglasses wait for the ensuing questions.
“Got any fruit?” asks the official.
"No, just some biohazard stuff I stole from a hospital."
"Yeah. Syringes. Stuff like that."
"Any fruit?"
“No oranges, peaches, or nectarines?”
“Thanks. You have a good day, Sir."

I'm on my way to sunny California. See you sometime. If I have internet access, I'll put up some pictures.

Dear Thank You,

You're a great phrase and all, but you show up by yourself on the last slide of one more PowerPoint presentation and, by God, I swear to Bazooka Joe that I will punch you right in your flamingo-loving Y.

Respectfully Yours,

tag lines

State Insurance

• Limited protection from things that suck!
• We hardly check into suspicious circumstances at all.
• Because everyone wants nice things. Especially yours.
• The biggest scam since Vegas!
• Because, by its very nature, our capitalist society alienates and neglects the unintelligent, the unmotivated and the socially inept, who are forced against their will and better judgment to turn to a life of stealing your stuff just so they can buy a bag of bread. Or some beers.
• Because we care. About your money.
• Sh*t happens. And sh*t is expensive.
• Because people get drunk and then drive around.
• Because that neighbor kid is awfully fond of matches.
• Because as our public school systems continues to neglect the needs of the nation’s youth, more and more children grow up without any sort of supervision or sense of responsibility. And then they get a car.
• Because the government lets old people drive.
• Yes, it’s hard to think about, but you’re going to die.
• Because right now, your stove could be silently leaking tasteless, odorless gas into the air and sometime around three a.m., an errant spark from your refrigerator could light that gas and turn your entire home in a raging, fiery inferno and the fire department could already be at another fire and your home and all your stuff could go up in flames, leaving nothing on your property but a smoldering black spot. Or something. You never know.

thoughts I had today

1. (driving in to work) Today’s gonna be a good day.
2. (listening to voicemails waiting for me at the office) Craphole. No, it’s not.
3. (thinking on the jobs I’ve just been assigned) I bet I’ve watched enough CSI to get away with murder.
4. (deleting comment spam) I wonder if I should move the blog to WordPress.
5. (trying to do stuff with WordPress) Maybe not.
6. (deleting more comment spam) Maybe.
7. (trying to do stuff with WordPress) Not.
8. (getting back to work) I bet I’ve watched enough CSI to get away with murder. I hear hit men make real good money.
9. (thinking about what work would be like if I quit my job and went into photography full-time) I wish my photos were good.
10. (walking to the kitchen) I really wish the new guy spoke English.
11. (in the kitchen) I wonder if I could fit this entire orange in my mouth.
12. (with an entire orange in my mouth) Yth!
13. (choking on an orange) I bet Aimee’s parents will take care of her and the baby.
14. (still choking on an orange) Craphole. I was really looking forward to California.
15. (done choking) Craphole. Back to work.


So about that three-week break I took that you probably didn’t notice.

I was busy. Not Normal Busy. Not I’m-So-Busy-I-Better-Take-A-Nap Busy. Really busy. Like I’m-So-Busy-I-Considered-Shooting-Myself-In-This-Face-This-Morning-Just-So-I-Could- Catch-A-Couple-Moments-Of-Peace-And-Quiet Busy. I’ve been writing like crazy. Just not here. TV spots, radio spots, print ads, brochures, booklets, advertorials and signs for the cutting room. And in addition to my regular work, I had the privilege of producing eight TV and radio commercials. Then, when I wasn’t at work, I was doing photography stuff. Shooting weddings, processing photos, putting books together. All in all, I think I churned out four months of work in the last three weeks. I feel old. And not Is-That-A-New-Wrinkle Old. Genuinely Need-A-Replacement-Hip-And-A-Bowl-Of-AllBran-Every-Morning Old. It sucks. When I turn fifty I’m going to pay an illegal immigrant to shoot me in the face so I can avoid ever having this feeling again. Lucky for me, things have calmed down. And I’m going on vacation at the end of the week. I still have a lot to do in terms of wedding photography stuff, but at least I won’t be going to the office for nine or ten hours every day.

Anyway, that’s why I didn’t post anything for a while. words will now re-sume its grand tradition of terrible writing and humorless comedy. Until next week, when I’m out of town and not posting. Thank you.

[Open on a cubicle. MARCO sits behind a desk, working at his computer. After a moment, ROBERT enters. He is holding a stack of papers and a red Sharpie.]

Robert: Hey man, when you send these layouts to be proofed, make sure you include all the backup.
Marco: [Blinks. Stares blankly at ROBERT.]
[A pause.]
Robert: You know, so we can check it.
Marco: [Blinks. Stares blankly at ROBERT.]
[A pause.]
Robert: For errors.
Marco: [Blinks. Stares blankly at ROBERT.]
[A pause.]
Robert: ‘Cause we have to make sure that all the phone numbers and addresses are correct.
Marco: [Blinks. Stares blankly at ROBERT.]
[A pause. JOHN enters.]
John: Hey, Rob. You and the new guy gettin’ to know each other? [Pats MARCO on the shoulder.]
Robert: Well, kinda. We were talking about the proofing process. Sort of.
John: Yeah, that could be a challenge.
Robert: Meaning…?
John: Marco wasn't doing much of the talking, was he?
Robert: None, actually.
John: Yup. You know he doesn’t speak a word of English?
Robert: Excuse me?
John: Yeah. Foreigner. You know how they talk about all those immigrants coming in and taking all our jobs? That’s this guy! [JOHN chuckles.]
[A pause.]
Robert: But… How…
John: Yeah, I know what you’re thinkin’. Communication and all that. But it’s all about the art, you know? Look at that. [Points to MARCO’s computer screen.] That is some good stuff. Damn good.

[A pause. ROBERT pulls his arm back as if to punch JOHN in the face. He reconsiders for a moment. And then throws himself into the wall. He falls to the ground, unconscious. JOHN and MARCO look on. After a moment, JOHN laughs and pats MARCO on the back. He points at ROBERT, draws circles in the air next to his temple, and laughs some more. Curtain.]


n. pl. a·pol·o·gies
An acknowledgment expressing regret or asking pardon for a fault or offense.

Zidane apologizes for attacking Materazzi

Zinedine Zidane has apologised for his headbutt on Italian defender Marco Materazzi in Sunday's World Cup final. But the French legend does not regret his actions, alleging on television that Materazzi provoked him by insulting both his mother and sister.

"It was inexcusable. I apologise," said the 34-year-old Zidane. "But I can't regret what I did because it would mean that he was right to say all that."

Zidane also said that he loves flying, but hates airplanes. He then professed his love for breathing and his complete disbelief in the existence of oxygen. He concluded by saying that Materazzi's mother was a fine woman. And a whore.

In response to questions from the press, Zidane denied having the most ridiculous name on the planet.


[Open on a dimly lit cubicle. Some slight movement is barely visible. Without warning, the lights come on. Everything freezes. ROBERT enters. PHONE holds KEYBOARD over the edge of the desk by his cord. GI JOE holds an enormous bottle of cognac to his lips. SUBWOOFER has stopped in mid-dance step with the SPEAKERS. BALL continues to scamper away from a herd of THUMBTACKS. Pause.]

Robert: What’s going on here?
[Silence. KEYBOARD falls to the ground and whimpers.]
Robert: Somebody explain this. Now.
Thumbtacks: [in unison] It’s Saturday.
Robert: So?
Phone: You’re not supposed to be here on Saturday.
Robert: Just ‘cause I’m not here doesn’t mean you can do anything you want.
GI Joe: Saturday is Me-Day! [hiccups]
Speakers: Yeah, this is our only time to relax!
Phone: We just need to let loose every once in a while, you know?
Robert: By throwing the keyboard off the desk?
Phone: Sometimes.
[KEYBOARD whimpers. GI JOE passes out.]
Robert: Look, you guys. I understand that you might be feeling the need for some time off. Especially after the last couple of weeks. But you can’t go drinking my booze and abusing each other. This can’t happen again.
Subwoofer: No problem, Chief.
Robert: That doesn’t mean you can do it as long as I don’t find out about it.
Subwoofer: Craphole.
Robert: What happened to the Sharpies?
Ball: You don’t want to know. And you also don’t want to hold them in your mouth anymore while you’re typing.
Robert: Oh, come on!
GI Joe: No! The plastic!
Robert: Is he-
Phone: Post-traumatic stress.
Robert: Oh. Well. Get yourselves cleaned up. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, and I’ve got work to do.
Robert: Don’t make me replace you all. I’ll do it.
[The office supplies begin cleaning up and returning to their places. The herd of THUMBTACKS carry GI Joe back to the bookshelf. ROBERT walks out.]
Keyboard: Please don’t leave me here with them. You don’t know what it’s like when you’re gone…

[BALL bounces off the bookshelf, falling towards KEYBOARD. Curtain.]


[I tried to post this yesterday, but had some problems with blogger. Then I forgot because I was busy being patriotic and getting smammered.]

Dear Continental Congress,

You dudes are awesome. Were awesome. You have to be the manliest dudes to have ever worn powdered wigs. I mean, they're not much to look at now, but back then, Britain was pretty fierce. And even though all you had was no shoes and a bunch of Indian costumes, you told them to shove it. And you were crazy enough to pull it off. Thanks.


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