Posts in: February 8th, 2003


As is often my wont, I spent last evening browsing the Internet for descriptions of new and inventive sex acts I could one day attempt, in the unlikely event that I ever speak to a woman again. Somewhere between the Abraham Lincoln (that’s where you shave off all of your pubic hair, set the clippings on a sheet of paper, and when a girl goes down on you, you shoot your load on her face, pick up the paper, and blow the hair all over her face…the sp00 makes it stick like a Lincoln-esque beard) and the flying Dutchman (not really complicated—all you do is yell “flying Dutchman” at the height of passion to confuse your partner or any friends who may be listening/watching), I came up with a disturbing idea. A very disturbing idea. A decidedly non-sexy idea, you fucking pervert.

Actually, it was the embryo ideation of what actually might become a script or a short story or something else that is in one way or another written down on paper. But the idea itself is kind of disturbing. Usually, when really odd and terrifying ideas pop into my head (once a second, on average), I dismiss them immediately, crawl into a snug corner of my closet, and whip myself with a bloody scourge as penance. But even with all the self-flogging (in more ways than one), the idea won’t leave. It’s still there, and it’s fleshing itself out while my horrified conscience says to itself, “There is something seriously wrong with you. Seek help. No, seriously.”

It dawned on me that this is what’s entirely wrong with me, and this is why I will never, ever make any money. Ever. For life. My ideas are not mainstream. Actually, my ideas border on utterly wrong. And yet I feel like I have to run with them, because otherwise they won’t go away. I have a drawer full of completed, half-completed, or outlined written ideas that will probably never leave the musty drawer. Meanwhile, I have maybe two ideas a year that are not completely terrifying and wrong and might actually be lucrative. I guess two is better than none, but the ratio of scary to sane is becoming a little rich.

Oh well. At least this idea is marginally better than the pornographic TV sitcom I came up with that’s set in a gas station called Exxxon.

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