A Bigger Punk Than I

Me: Hello, Writer’s Block! Good morning! I’d like to shake your hand and tell you how good it is that you’re here on this fine Monday morning not even a week after I started my brand-new blog!

Writer’s Block: Well, thanks. I’m happy to be here.

Me: Now, this blog is, let me just go ahead and say it again, brand new and I am really, really happy to have you here upstaging me before I’ve even had a chance to get my bid in, so I just wanted to thank you heartily for coming here and now I have so let’s move the hell on. Since it’s new, I don’t think my readers are very familiar with you yet. Why don’t you tell them a little about yourself?

WB: Certainly. Well, I hail from Death (of Creativity) Valley and I still have some family there. I think you know my brother Badjoke and my sister Cliché?

Me: We’ve met.

WB: Did you just twitch? Might want to see someone about that. Anyway, I don’t make it back there to see them too often. I’m all over the place these days. I was recently fired from my job and since I’m broke and unemployed and have nothing better to do, I decided to trail along after you for awhile. You haven’t been making that easy for me.

Me: No.

WB: I liked the police tape and the chalk outline in your last apartment. Along with the really, really overdone blood message on the wall. Nice touch. If a bit amateurish.

Me: Well, thanks. I am new at this dodging-the-forces-of-evil thing, you know.

WB: Right. So anyway, I don’t have a job—

Me: What were you doing before?

WB: (sighing heavily) If you must know, I was hired by the producers of Gilmore Girls to hang out with their writers near the end of Season Six.

Me: Why?

WB: (rolling eyes) Because everyone was sick of the Lorelai-Luke drama. Actually, sick of Lorelai in general. Plus they weren’t getting in enough time with their families, or their personal trainers for that matter. Spare tires everywhere, you wouldn’t believe how disgusting a tube top can look on—

Me: I get it, thanks.

WB: So they really wanted the show to end, but they couldn’t just end with everyone breaking up and unhappy because omigod, so they had to end it another way.

Me: Let me just get this straight. You agreed to cause a really long and horribly protracted seventh season that was not even a tenth as good as the previous six so that ratings would go down and they’d be forced to take the show off the air?

WB: Correct.

Me: Nice, Writer’s Block. What, did you kick the dog too?

WB: What dog?

Me: Never mind. So your job ended…

WB: Right. And like I said, I was broke. Bastards stiffed me. Something about the ending being “too happy,” which, as you remember, is the complete opposite what they were trying to avoid. I swear, you can’t win with these people.

Me: Let’s move on to the part about me. Shall we?

WB: So anyway, that’s when I started trailing you.

Me: So that would have been around May 15, 2007?

WB: You know an awful lot about the show.

Me: I have Google. Also, bite me. May 15, 2007? That was right around the time I was finishing up my Great American Novel and then I had to stop, burn it in a bonfire, and gnash my teeth until they were half gone. See? (Bares teeth) I haven’t been able to sink my teeth into anything since. Your work?

WB: (blushes) Don’t thank me. I was glad to do it.

Me: Why don’t you come here and say that to my face?!

WB: Well, if I did, you wouldn’t be able to describe it anyway.

Something happened after that little exchange but I currently find myself without the words to depict it.

Leave me your own personal, tried-and-true methods of {verb}ing this evil {adjective}ing {noun}, and I’ll see what I can do about implementing them.