It’s not easy being a comedian. You wake up every morning with a smile on you lips and a great quip to put your wife in her place. It’s not always like that. Your wife may have left you to become an undertaker one year ago because she loved your comedy lifestyle. One, being funny for a living is not enough to give a man the career satisfaction of a sewage worker or the acting skills of a professional wrestler.
There’s something magical about creating humor and the writer is afraid it will disappear, never to return. He doesn’t know its origins and can’t go to the comedy shop and refill his tank. He can hire a stunt writer to help him with action scenes, but comedy is not a substitute.
He brushes his teeth, drinks his coffee and drank his hangover before turning on the computer. He realizes that he hadn’t washed his car in the past 24 hours and that no comedian would ever be seen with a dirty car. He goes to the neighbor’s house and cleans his car. Butch isn’t such a bad guy. He eats this for the entire morning, his stomach grumbles, and he recalls that he had never eaten breakfast because he was so excited to get started on the new script. The deadline was last week.
What should it be for lunch? Perhaps something Greek? Humous and pitta bread? Or Italian. Pasta with chicken in garlic sauce You can also make Lebanese lamb Kebabs, and serve them with a Mediterranean Salad.
A ham sandwich is what he has, which finishes the loaf. It was also about to do that chameleon thing of changing colour. He slumps down in front of the TV and, what do you know? There’s a Discovery documentary about the sexual life of gnats. His ever-questing mind has always wondered how these gnats manage such things.
After lunch, he gets to the keyboard and checks his mail. He discovers that his spam folder contains more friends than his address book. He can’t write while all of these processes are running, as it would slow down everything. He finally gets up and drags himself away to the computer, wondering what his friends are doing. Because they all have stupid nine-to-five jobs that pay regular salaries, the idiots won’t be in the pub.
It’s worth the effort so he grabs his phone and sends out text messages to everyone and every one announcing that they are available for drink, debauchery or, as he puts it, research, and development. Guess what? Doug replies that he is on a half-day and that he is at the bar. Is he allowed to? He’s unable to work. The computers are out of action. There’s not much in the house except for the ironing. He is not on his best form. The magic has left him. He will continue writing until his fingers bleed tomorrow, with luck.