This week, I seem to be suffering from writer’s block, which is really nothing more than a form of intellectual constipation.  The words are there in my head.  I can feel them pressing into each other just behind my left eye.  I just can’t seem to push them out.  Of course, likening writer’s block to an uncomfortable constriction of the colon presumes two things:

First, that just as there is a pharmeceutical form of relief for bowel irregularity, there is a chemical answer to writer’s block.  This idea is somewhat correct, as two of my literary heroes (Hemingway and Fitzgerald) were well know for their indulgence in alcohol and other drugs.  But, when I get drunk, I just get sleepy and crave leftover Chinese food.  The second presumption is that once the intellectual constipation passes and the words in my head are able to flow freely, the resulting composition will be nothing but shit.  I leave the accuracy of that statement to my audience.

One of the “tricks” taught to us writers for these moments of creativity cramping, is something called “stream of consciousness.”  This exercise calls for the author to simply write down, with no particular order or coherence, that which comes to mind.  The inscribed thoughts are random and formed without major effort.  The hope is that one phrase or sentence will inspire the writer to genius and break the block.  So it’s kind of like when you are constipated, but you can still pass gas and you’re hoping that the flatuence will lead to relief.  However, this process is not to be confused with the “brain fart,” which is a moment of forgetfulness.

Hence, in an effort to alleviate my writer’s block, I present you with my stream of consciousness…

Coke Zero has caffiene in it… So it’s not really “zero.”

Mac-and-Cheese should never be considered a gourmet dish.  Yet, the Food Network insists that it can be.

Rachel Ray is the most annoying human being on the face of the planet.

I have two more wisdom teeth that need to be pulled.

This article is probably boring the hell out of everybody.

Does anyone else have a problem with finding a comfortable pair of pants?

I’d like to see a cage match between Obama and Jesse Jackson.  The winner gets to cut whatever he wants off of the loser.

I got a haircut on Friday for the first time in over a year.  When my barber finished, he looked at all the trimmings on the floor and said, “Wow!  It looks like a cat exploded!”

All right.  That’s enough.  The pressure behind my eye is continuing to build, and there’s no reason to let you suffer any more.  I apologize.  Perhaps inspiration will spank me in the next couple of days.  If it does, I’ll be sure to post another article.  Let’s just chalk this one up to “Johnny’s burned out.”  So, here’s a video from the late George Carlin that is very akin to my main vocation, the auction industry…