BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

…Or am I just happy to see you?

Remember your childhood? No… Not back that far. No need for poopy diapers around here. I fling enough poo for all of us.

I mean like back when you were about 8 to 10… Maybe slightly younger, but not too much. You know, kind of like around the age of kids in those sub sandwich commercials where they have all the adults running around but they have little kid kinda voices…

You haven’t seen those? Well damn… They’re actually kinda funny…

Hmmm… Well just stick with me here and maybe we can work this out.

Back when you were a kid, around 8 to 10, did your parents ever say, “Come on, Rusty (or whatever they called you). We’re going for a ride.” Then, drive for about two hours and eventually boot you out of the car on some lonely country road and then speed off?

Okay, okay so mine didn’t do that to me either.

So, how about this instead: Did they ever hustle you into the car, not telling you where you were going, then listen to you gripe for 20 minutes because you wanted to watch Lassie or The Lone Ranger instead of go somewhere that you didn’t even know where or what it was? And then, after you were really good and bored, and extra grumpy, and were just plain being a kid, they broke the news to you that you were on your way to get a new bike… Or a puppy… Or to see a movie you’d just been dying to see… Or Holiday Hill… Or White Castle… Or swimming… Or any one of a million things that would make a kid go ape-shit excited to the point where they wiggle right out of their Superman Underoos?

Well, unless you had a truly horrible childhood then you probably know what I’m talking about, at least on some level, be it big or small.  If you did have a truly horrible childhood, you have my sympathies…

So anyway, why the hell am I rambling about such inane silliness? Well, you see, sometimes it’s exactly like that for writers. We get started on a manuscript (hustled into the car). We write, and write, and write (gripe and get grouchy because we’d rather be looking at porn… Hey, the other shows have lost their appeal at this point)… and besides, even though the story is good, and the prose we have penned is gripping, the final destination is in the hands of the characters and they haven’t yet given up the secret info…

But then, just like our parents who had tortured us with clandestine car rides only to surprise us with serendipitous banana splits from Velvet Freeze,  our characters choose some arbitrary moment to reveal to us where we are going.

You know, like when we are folding the laundry and ruminating about where to take that next chapter.

And, just like the little kids we were then, we wiggle right out of our  Superman Underoos, giggle, pee ourselves, and get all kinds of cotton candy overload excited.

Yeah… Pretty cool, eh?

So… I guess now that I’ve peed my Superman Underoos I should change. Whaddaya think, Batman or Aquaman?

Of course, there’s always Wonder Woman… But those are really designated for when I’m looking at porn instead of writing…

More to come…

Murv

I was looking at the news the other morning. This isn’t unusual, I do it every single morning. Well… When I have access to a TV. If not I listen to the radio. If I don’t have that I look for a newspaper. If I’m cut off from those too, well… I cry.

But that’s another story and I don’t want to talk about it…

The thing is, even with elections, exploding volcanoes, cholera epidemics, and airplanes falling out of the sky, one of the top news items was a “slow news day” sort of thing.

“What was that?”  you ask.

The McRib.

Yes… The sickly-sweet-sauce soaked, pressed, molded, and formed, non-rib pork by-products on a bun with a pickle. You see, “It’s back.” This is not to be confused with Carol Anne announcing, “They’re back.” We aren’t talking poltergeists here. We may, however, be talking zeitgeists… I mean, given that the golden arches would like for everyone to get all excited about pressed pork leavin’s on a bun, they are in effect creating their own, artificial, “spirit of the age,” so to speak.

Apparently, though, “the age” only lasts six weeks. It seems that’s what makes the “return of the McRib” newsworthy and not just commercial-worthy. The marketing geniuses  at the fast food mecca have created this overwhelming demand for a product by making it scarce. Their official position is even something to the effect that by restricting McRib trade they keep the “true fans” of the sandwich wanting more. And, I wasn’t kidding about them being geniuses – I mean, after all, here I am blogging about their damn McSammich, and adding to the buzz. No offense to my publicist, but I think maybe I need some of these burger folks on my team.

But back to the whole McRib Mania… I really have to wonder if we’re talking “true fans” or just sheeple that are getting excited over this.

Why?

Because if rib-shaped, non-rib, pork by-product patties are really your thing, you can buy them at the grocery store all year round. So what’s the big deal with the McVersion of the sandwich?

The Secret McBurger Police will probably have me silenced for this, but I think I know what makes it so special.

It just has to be the pickle… I bet they’re importing them.

More to come…

Murv