My mom says I should start a blog to re-direct my misguided energies. So says my school guidance counselor, too. My behaviorist says I need a creative outlet that doesn't include fire or small animals. As does the judge who presided at my trial. The last trial, not the previous three. And not including the mistrials.
My mom says, when she's in a good mood, usually right after her three-martini lunches, that I'm just a bit "rambunctious". Good one, Mom. Last time I heard that word, I fell off my dinosaur, laughing.
My dad, who's known for his sense of humor -- he farts and then always blames it on the dog -- calls me lots of funny names, but none of them that I can repeat. He does say that if I had another brain, it would get lonesome. He's all the time saying funny stuff like that.
Am I really a genius? Who knows? But who am I to argue with everyone?
So here I am, preparing to write about my interests (classic movies from last year and beyond, politics, old guys with funny-looking toupees) and my disinterests (girls with cooties). My likes (potted meat sandwiches, anything with Bruce Campbell) and my dislikes (inflammable things).
"Don't be afraid to express yourself," says my court-appointed psychiatrist, wanting to light his pipe with the missing matches I just took off his desk. "Be the best person you can be."
2 comments:
Stinky, I'm so proud!
Thanks, old-timer. I mean Uncle Dave. But don't expect me to forget that you turned me into the cops.
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