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.
3 comments:
Well, writing about your lack of a working funny bone was funny.
But since writing without it is difficult, I hope it returns soon.
How fun that you made a character out of your funny bone. I do hope he comes back home so we can enjoy him.
Sioux,
Yes. I seem to be attracting readers like vinegar attracts flies. I hope my little honey, Funny Bone, comes back soon.
*************
Stephen,
I wanted him to come crawling back, dendrites between his legs. The NERVE of that ulnar fellow! But now, I would welcome him with a plate of gas station chicken and a 44 oz. Diet Coke.
Post a Comment