It was a deadline day and I was nervous. Not a new idea in sight and a hungry readership waiting for the next pearl to launch off my tired keyboard.
I did what any self respecting writer would do in similar circumstances - I hustled on down to the blog delicatessen.
"Hey Bernie what you got for me today, you got any irony?" "Sorry, Rob," he belched, as he wiped his hands across his schmutzy smock, "We're fresh out of irony, can you settle for some of this bloated self importance - I hear it's delicious!"
I shook my head sadly, and thought to myself, still have plenty of that I'm afraid from last week." "How about humility, Bern, how's that looking today?"
"It was looking good until that Susan Boyle thing hit Youtube, now every wannabe artiste is out there walking around in a frumpy dress looking like a hausfrau."
"Damn, Well what do you suggest?"
"You could buy some of this tortured introspection."
"No go, Bern", I muttered, "I've been playing this sick card for months and I think the jig is almost up."
"You got any of that polysyllabic puffery in stock?"
He cocked his fat head to one side and scratched his neck, "We had oodles until about fifteen minutes ago. George Will just left."
"How about the little guy getting screwed by the Man again, Rob, that's always a big hit with your customers?"
"Man, Schman, they've heard that one coming out of my frigging banjo until it's running down their freaking ears, give them two bucks and they become the man." "And the little guy doesn't buy expensive paintings - can't exactly upset the apple cart."
"Way last week."
"Deli man, I'm sporting a catheter, don't even go there. One erection, I break in two..."
"Righteous indignation - false sincerity?" "Witty repartee - ribald sexual innuendo?"
Too fatty, I sadly shook my head.
"We are running a half off special on Bush Bashing - you know how well you did with that last year."
"Christsakes, he's picking up dog poop in Crawford and throwing out first pitches. Talk about a no go. Don't peddle me that old stock. And I can't turn on Obama yet, not after writing about him like he was covered in holy light and shitting gold bricks, my readership would have my hide.
I left with the tongue and pastrami. Please don't tell my cardiologist.
©2009 Robert Sommers