I feel unwitty, so unwitty...I feel unwitty, unpretty, ungaaaaay. I also feel unqualified to sing a selection from West Side Story.
My funny bone up and left me today. Packed up all his troubles in an old kit bag, unsmilingly, then dumped them out, gathered them into a red bandana, tied it to a hobo stick, and strode off down the driveway faster than that fiery little stomach toted his suitcase out of the Heartburn Hotel.
I don't know who he thinks he is, my funny bone. I've tried to humor him. But he refuses to pull his own weight. Who ever heard of Rowan's Laugh-In? The Smothers Brother? The One Stooge? The Kid in the Hall? The Not-Ready-For-Primetime Player? I can't shoulder the full responsibility of entertaining the masses day in and day out. I need my partner.
Now I sit here, stewing in my own juice, plotting revenge on F. Bone. I've a good mind to pinch him between two lawn chair arms. That oughta get him tingling. Twang him like a banjo string. We belong together. We do our best work when he's under my skin. He's nothing on his own.
Oh, he'll be back.
Without me, he's just another ulnar nerve.