The names and characters have been changed, but rest assured, dear reader, things like this happen all the time…
The glowing light of beauty draws near. “Oh, Holy Jesus, she’s coming. Quick, pretend like I’ve just said something profoundly funny.” The person I’m addressing, let’s call them David Caruso for arguments sake – that, and with David Caruso in your story the reader instinctively presumes there may be some sex on the way – turns in bemused interested to identify the audience of my little pantomime. “Are you crazy? Don’t look now, she’ll see you.” I quickly reprimand the leading man of Jade “– don’t look, just laugh.” With all the vim and vigor of a drunken Irishman on Saint Patrick’s Day, Caruso lets fly the most heartily of hearty laughs, the type of laugh that can only be transcribed in capital letters and explanation points. Dammit, I think to myself, too much ham and cheese Caruso, this time you’ve blown it, the loveliness can see right through you’re one dimensional acting, it’s over. Between the moment the beauty arrives and the first syllables of what is to be a perfect sentence leave her heavenly forged lips, a mere instant passes, but in the gah-gah-she-so-pretty mode I find myself in, the vision seems to stand there for eternity.
“What’s so funny?” She asks. The lyricism of her voice renders me speechless, while the blatant gawk of my eyes resembles that of an old man trapped in an elevator with an attractive catholic school girl inspecting her stockings for an elusive hole. Caruso, seeing my immobility, ascertains the role of life guard and comes to my rescue, “oh, nothing really.” Thanks Caruso you’re a real pal, and I take back the ham and cheese insult and praise his underappreciated work in Deep Cover and Kiss of Death. But my thanks are cut short as he continues, “nothing really, just perhaps the funniest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” What! I squawk inside my mind. How dare you, Caruso, I'll see you dead for this. She’s mine, you hack, and you can’t have her.
“Common, guys, what’s so funny?” Time is running out. Grace Kelly wants an answer, she deserves an answer. She won’t judge you, just make something up. You’re funny, she’ll love you no matter what you say, baby. You can do it. Go for it.
No you can’t.
“Er…” I begin. The fear rapidly swells. Nothing’s coming. Think, dammit, think.
“Yeah, tell us, don’t hold out, tell us. You're a dead man, Caruso; Sipowicz can’t save you now. Am I sweating? Must say something before it’s too late. Be like Fonzie, be like Fonzie.
“I was just saying…”
Time freezes over and and in the same way a movie may have an ellipses of time to skip the details of a lengthy scene, the next few minutes contain several smiles and nods from the princess, and not to mention delicious, jealous ridden scowls from Caruso, while my dialogue flows effortlessly from my tongue into the enchanted heart of the lovely. It’s working. I throw a few well timed voices and staged hand gestures to thicken the tale for good measure.
I am the master storyteller.
I am Shakespeare.
I am Mozart.
Building to a crescendo the tale comes to a triumphant conclusion. All that is left is to take the beauty in my arms and discuss what the name of our first born shall be: I’ve always like Jeremy for a boy. Alanis for a girl.
Smiling, but seeming somewhat bemused, the lovely looks at me for further explanation.
Everything’s all right, I tell myself: you do have a slight accent on some words, perhaps she didn’t hear everything you said, especially during you’re hilarious Scottish overture.
“I don’t understand,” she says, removing the poisoned dagger from my heart.
“What part?” I enquire in waving hope.
“Well, all of it, really.”
Whilst I inaudibly curse myself for over indulging in a Shaun Connery impression that has always brought me nothing but pain and anguish, I see in my peripheral vision the perfect princess glance at her perfect silver watch which sits on her perfect wrist.
“Yeah…well, I’ve got to be leaving now, nice seeing you, though.” The unborn cries of Jeremy and Alanis curse my foolishness.
I’m so sorry, kids.
“Hey, I’m going too,” the interjection of the Judas, Caruso, “I can give you a lift if you like? I’ve got a great joke Jimmy Smits once told me” Not knowing the icy shards of rejection her assertion strikes down my spine the beauty replies, “sure.”
I am a terrible storyteller.
I am not Mozart.
I am Pauly Shore.
The moral of this story is simple: always have a remotely funny story on backup and if you know anyone like David Caruso kill them before they kill you.
Mark.
Not only has my many years of gaming given me the abilty to aviod harazards - be it fresh-eaters ,stray pets or otherwise - but it has also bestowed upon me a way of looking at the roads that your average "I just turned 18, look at me" driver (or child born after 1987 for that matter) could never hope to achieve. I refer to the following image taken from today's lesson.
