Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Ya know…

A little free time can be an awfully dangerous thing.

Yesterday, Mrs. Watson and I got into one of our long-running freeform e-mail exchanges (by the way, a big “thank you” to Chet the E-Mail Boy for being such a good helper—I’m going to get him a box of real Kellogg’s Corn Flakes instead of the cheap store brand I usually get him) which ranged widely, as it usually does, to and fro among topics such as family, beaches, flatulence, Delaware, blogging, eggs, Marines, cosmetic waxing and its low-cost alternative—duct tape.

As is the usual case, this exchange spilled over to today, which is not really a good thing since I am stuck doing a transcript of the Great Big Silly Stewpid Ignernt Show and I made mention of the fact that my tiny little walnut-sized possum brain has been nearly sucked out of my head by the numbingly uncreative task at hand, witnessed particularly by my use of the contraction “you’re” instead of the word “your”. (Shocking!!)

I have felt the steady trickle of creative juices flowing out all morning. (Either that, or I need to change my Depends.)

I allowed to Francesca that maybe I needed me some of that duct tape—after all, it is a cure-all of indescribable efficaciousness.

Inspired by the idea of…well…what exactly I’m not quite sure, but inspired nonetheless, the Grouchy Ol’ Yorkie Lady came up with a rather nice screenplay treatment based upon my malady:

SCENE - Interior, Space Ship.

LURK SKYPOSSUM is seated glumly on a bench that runs under a bank of windows looking out over millions of sparkling stars. OBI-WAN ACRACKER enters.

OBI-WAN: Lurk. What's wrong?

LURK: It's this... this thing. This evil that sucks the creativity out of the mind. I... I can't get the image out of my head....

OBI-WAN: What, Lurk? What image?

LURK: My aunt Grenache. The way she just...

OBI-WAN: Don't torment yourself, Lurk. There was nothing you could have done. You know now that there is a serious battle to be fought.

LURK: But I am so powerless! We all are! How can we possibly fight against an evil this complete, this insidious?

OBI-WAN: The only thing that works is duct tape, wielded by precisely the right man, at precisely the right time.

LURK: Duct-tape??!?! That's been outlawed for years! And the only men who were ever able to use it were....

At this point, a bit of expository backstory may be required. Inhabitants of the remote village of Trussville, they are legendary for their skill and artistry and neat appearance and penmanship and hardiness and beauty and porcelain thimbles and annoying habit of walking in the street when there’s a perfectly good sidewalk and prowess with duct tape. (And staples.) The story continues:
LURK: But they've been gone for years... killed... by the... the...

OBI-WAN: There was one left, young Lurk. One left to stand against the darkness. And when he was finally taken, he left behind... a weapon like no other.

OBI-WAN produces a slender steel bar, ending in a wide T-junction. Threaded on the bar, one after the other, are many rolls of bright silver duct tape. The bar is attached to a wide belt, which OBI-WAN fastens around LURK'S waist.

LURK (touching the belt reverently): I don't understand, Obi-Wan Acracker.

OBI-WAN: He was your father, Lurk. And now that you have the only tool capable of fighting the evil, the battle has been left to you.

LURK stares out the window, thoughtfully pulling small strips of duct tape off the top roll and working them between his fingers. There is nothing to say, and everything to do. FADE TO BLACK.
::sniff:: Oh, um, er. Sorry. But that part always gets to me.

IN ANY EVENT, many thanks to Nick’s Wife for this inspiring and moving contribution!

(Is there any way to work in a part for Norah O’Donnell? Just a thought.)

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