Last October my laptop's screen stopped working. I was advised to try an external monitor, which I did, and nothing. I'm quite certain that the past few years of nanowrimos are preserved in an unobtainable time capsule on the hard drive for some future technician to discover and discard as he or she sees fit. Sadly I've been unable to afford a suitable replacement until my tax return came in (there is no chance of me writing on an iPad). But according to amazon my Chromebook will be arriving tomorrow, and if it lives up to the hype I should be back on my blog posting regularly.
Just to kind of get back into the basic flow of things, I thought I might share a few of the assignments I've been submitting to my Humor Writing class, since it's pretty much the only writing I've been doing for the past four months.
For this first one I was assigned to write a humorous story based on something from my own life.
I used to be a character performer at Disney World, and when I first got measured for my height range I managed to slouch just enough to get down into Eeyore height (a character that was much more my speed than the pressure-to-always-be-bouncing Tigger height range).
The expression on Eeyore's face was pleasant, but perpetually melancholic. As such I got to witness, and presumably be responsible for, the early stages of empathy development among many of the three to four year old children who visited the parks. "Eeyore, what's wrong?" they would ask me. "Why are you so sad?" Of course we weren't allowed to speak in costume, so I had to resort to basic gestures to answer their queries; and I found the easiest way out of the conversation was to point to Tigger and let the children fill in the gaps.
So one day a little girl was being noticeably affected by her concern over Eeyore's emotional well-being, and I mean she tried HARD to be there for me; petting my fuzzy nose and insisting that everything would be okay. She may have even slipped me a card with the number for the suicide hotline on it.
When she finally asked me directly what had happened I pointed, on cue, to my coworker in the Tigger costume. The girl's eyes followed my paw, but she didn't seem to understand what I was telling her. So I knelt down on her level like I was letting her in on a secret and pointed again to Tigger. A few seconds later her eyes widened with a sudden awareness. "Ohhh," she said in pure seriousness and walked away silently.
Ten minutes later I was in the break room relaying the encounter to my coworkers and wishing out loud how I would love to have known what scenario her four year old brain had pieced together. Our character greeter (who had witnessed the exchange) was kind enough to fill in the details. The girl thought Tigger had broken up with me.
This second one was an exercise in greeting card writing.
And this last one was the hardest for me, because I was asked to 'roast' someone in at least 250 words. I understand the rationale behind roasts, maybe even the little bit of value the brand of comedy has, but the bottom line is it's just not me. I chose Peter Jackson as my target because I certainly do respect him as a director, but I don't actually have any real feelings for or against him (which I guess made it possible to personally disconnect myself from the humor style).
Humorous Valentine:
P1: Roses are Red. Violets are Blue.
P3: For once could you just take my word for it?
Humorous Birthday:
P1: Do you know what's nice about getting older?
P3: Rats. I was hoping you'd think of something.
Humorous Seasonal:
P1: Hoping you have the unpressured option of an amiable, culturally inclusive, religiously unbiased, non-politically charged, vague timeframe which happens to coincide with holiday season.
P3: What? Now you're offended because I made you READ?
And this last one was the hardest for me, because I was asked to 'roast' someone in at least 250 words. I understand the rationale behind roasts, maybe even the little bit of value the brand of comedy has, but the bottom line is it's just not me. I chose Peter Jackson as my target because I certainly do respect him as a director, but I don't actually have any real feelings for or against him (which I guess made it possible to personally disconnect myself from the humor style).
It's with great pleasure to introduce to you Academy Award demanding visionary director Peter Jackson.
For those of you whose whimsical memories of the Muppets wasn't maimed by Meet the Feebles, Peter Jackson grew into his career as a director the way most young camera owners who can't hold down a job do, by confusing artistry with on-screen vomit. Since then he's gone on to make one of the most critically tolerated films to ever waste the talents of Stanley Tucci.
But of course we will always know him as this generation's George Lucas, for completely redefining a film genre with a nearly flawless epic trilogy and then ****ing it up with a horrible prequel trilogy. Although to be fair it does take less time to get through the three Hobbit films than the ending of Return of the King, so the balance has a logic.
We also have Mr. Jackson to thank for the accomplished career of Mr. Andy Serkis, whoever the hell that is, as well as keeping the dolly grips from Xena: Warrior Princess employed. In fact New Zealand is the only thing dissuading Hollywood from an exodus to Shreveport, Louisiana right now and I for one am forever in Mr. Jackson's debt for keeping those baked, vegan, silicone-addicts on the Waterworld side of the San Andreas Fault line where they belong.
But most importantly, Mr. Jackson serves as a reminder to any young film maker that- no matter how talented you are, how many awards you've won, or how many billions of dollars your films take in, Steven Moffat is never going to let you get your carrot chomping paws on Doctor Who.
Peter Jackson!
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