Interview Alert

Today I was interviewed by Mark Goren, friend, co-worker and owner of Planting Seeds. 

You can read the entire interview here...

The cat

If Sarah thinks that curiosity killed the cat, who am I to argue with her. To me, its just one less person I have to explain the fur on the fender to.

The choice is hard

If I was given the choice between being a young writer with little life experience and credibility or being an old writer with lots of money, fame and respect, I would choose to be the young writer because at least I wouldn't have erection issues.

Down boy

When my dog died I was faced with a dilemma: Should I plan an elaborate funeral, proper burial and appropriate tribute to my best friend? Or should I just continue on our walk as if nothing happened?

No comment

At this time, I have no comment. 

Please do not ask me anything about this matter, because the whole story is a non-story as far as I am concerned. I will not be answering questions from the media at this time.

For the sake and dignity of all parties, I have chosen to remain silent on this matter. I will say that it is no one's business what I was doing with the hippopotamus, so, like I said before, no comment. 

It is important to state that this is a private and personal matter between me, my wife and the San Diego Zoo. I only ask that you respect my family's privacy, the hippo's privacy and the privacy of the gorilla that was watching us in the neighboring cage. I would, however, like to apologize to the Grade Two class of the Garden Oaks Elementary School for any misunderstanding I may have caused. It was not what you thought.

I have no other comment to make. I will only say at this time that the pictures in yesterday's paper do not accurately reflect the complete story. Regardless of what I was doing or not doing, the hippo was not in any pain as the angle of that shot may have led readers to believe.  I am also much better looking in person.

At this time, I just want to be left alone to deal with this matter properly, so I have no further comments to make. It is important to state, however, that the goat costume I was wearing did not belong to me. In fact, I do not know how I ended up wearing it. This is as much a mystery to me as it is to you. 

I also have no comment to make on the large quantities of Hippopotamus lubricating jelly found in my trunk. I do not know how that ended up there, so no comment. I will say that I lent the car to my neighbor, Ray, the day before so maybe he had something to do with it. If it helps any, Ray has a criminal record so maybe you should be asking him questions. Ray also likes to sleep with prostitutes and cheated on his taxes last year, so don't be so quick to judge me, when there are others who should be looked at more closely.

I guess what I am trying to say here is I have no comment. 

Thank you for understanding.

I am writer

Today I have decided to give in to two of the voices in my head (Regis and Tito, if you must know) and make an appointment with a Career Assessment Adviser to see if I have what it takes to become a serious writer.

I realize I am a little bit late in the game for this, since I have already had business cards printed up that say Terrence Paquet, Serious Writer, but better now than never.

Fearing our meeting might turn ugly if she tells me I am not cut out to be a writer who is serious, I place a chewed-up pencil with a worn down eraser behind my ear to subliminally tell her that I am a nervous writer who erases a lot of mistakes - in other words, serious. For the record, I have also stuffed my pants with a rolled up gym sock (not mine) and a 5-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower, which says that I am both athletic and cosmopolitan.

Our time is filled with plenty of emotional discussion about my strong moral values, my deep belief in Christianity and my talent for kleptomania.

50 minutes in to the assessment, I realize I have been spilling my guts out to Shirley, the receptionist from the office next door. I suppose the fact that she was constantly answering the phone during our "session" should have been a tip-off, but you know what they say about hindsight. 

By the time I step into the real adviser's office, I no longer feel like talking, so I stare out the window avoiding her questions but doing my best to look "writer-ish", meaning scrunching my forehead as if I was in deep thought and looking inebriated. 

The jabbing pain from the Eiffel Tower in my groin area becomes too unbearable so I cut the meeting short. Surprisingly, she still charges me for a full-priced session. I take solace in the fact that I am paying for this with Shirley's credit card so all is not lost.

As I drive home in a Toyota Corolla (Shirley's, not mine) the pencil falls out of my ear and hits the miniature replica of the world famous monument nestled up against my warm genitals.

It makes a clinking noise on impact.

For me, the sound represents the voice of an angel telling me that no matter what Regis or Tito say, I am a writer. And the rash that has developed from the viscose sock is also the angel telling me to switch to cotton.

Call me Keiko

In my three-tiered quest to build the brand of "Penis", help underprivileged children around the world and support my crack habit, I have come to the realization that I should be a little more exotic if I am to take advantage of the cash-rich immigrant market. 

My instincts tell me that these people will not be very inclined to buy a book written by a middle-aged white man no matter how good a writer I know I are. 

Therefore I have decided to change my identity to a 25 year old Japanese woman - a more appealing persona that is certain to earn me respect from the masses and get attention from the Japanese-loving producers of Oprah. 

To begin my transformation I have requested that all of my family members now  call me "Keiko Natsuki" which I am told by reliable sources means hung like a church mouse. 

I have also changed my work ethic from one hour of drunken, rambling, free-form scribbling in the morning to 23 hours of non-stop labor with no bathroom breaks. (The people from the  Guinness Book of World Records should be calling any day now.)

For visual effect, I have started wearing a silky kimono - a more comfortable alternative to my usual uniform of Saran Wrap pants and Garden Gnome party hat. An added benefit of this fashion shift has been the discovery of breezy updrafts on the genitals.  

If this new writer look doesn't work, I have a Gondolier's hat and fake mustache waiting in the wings. After all, how many many famous Venetian writers are there?