My Frenologies

I've heard it said that I may have Jewish blood in me somewhere back in my line. Jewish people often take me for one of their own. That's happened dozens of times. Wait. That's too much. But it's happened at least five times. That's a lot for Jewish people. It's possible. Poland had more Jews in the time my ancestor set sail for Canada. But there are a few facts about me to challenge this suggestion. I'm -uh- sort of Catholic. My mom's Irish. I have childhood memories of men in kilts scaring me with their loud bagpipes. My nose is prominent, but it is also, in profile, straight. My lobes are distinctly outgrown. (I'm just trying to reach these people in their own language.) Above all, man, do I SUCK at managing money! I am an absolute disgrace to the Hebrew race if that is the case.
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© 2010. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

We Are Not Abused

My muses are a bunch of wisegirls. They try to slip insults past me as I'm writing. Then, when I call them on it, they try to cover over it with a compliment. It's been going on for some time now. When I get my hands on them, I'm going to rip their wings off. Then I'm going to laugh at them as they try to fly away and they can't. And I'm going to put my hand in front of them to block their path and then, when they turn around, I'm going to put it back in their way. Or maybe I'll just rip one of their wings off and watch them flip over and over in confusion. Once they're tired, I'm getting out my wooden spoon and giving them each a good spanking.
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© 2007, 2010. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

The Suspect 'Usual'

I can't imagine what could have made me think of this as I was trying to sleep in this morning. Canada adopted a prison reform some time ago, preventing the use of 'cruel and unusual punishment' on inmates. It strikes me as oxymoronic. To me, a cruel punishment is far more cruel if it's usual, as in relentless. Anything else, being a freak occurrence, would be comparatively easy to get over. Sounds to me like prison is even more brutal than it was before.
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It Hurts to Laugh

After watching a seriously funny SCTV clip from the 70's called Tabby Surprise Casserole, featuring the late, great John Candy as a conservative TV gourmet, advising the poor on how to stretch their food budget, I thought of one significant difference between myself and that character. I would not offer such dishes to the poor out of contempt, but from experience.
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Every Mushroom Cloud Has a Silver Lining

All the reports about nuclear weapons falling into the hands of madmen can be a little distressing if you don't know how to handle them. I take them very lightly. Wanna know my secret? I'm not racist. I'm not entirely sexist. But there is one group I do discriminate against quite shamelessly: the not yet conceived. See, if the whole world goes kablooey, we all still had the experience of life. We were all going to die anyway. And, if we're all equal, like it says in the constitution, well, it's only fair that we all go at the same time. The only group that misses out is the future generations. Who cares about them? We don't even know what they look like! Fuck 'em. Sleep well, friends. I hope this helped.
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Blitzer Krieg

The year is 1980. A distraught game show host drives his car off the executive lot for the last time. Alone, he is free to grumble. 'I can't believe they cancelled High Rollers again. And it's all because of that new cable news network, stealing away all my viewers. I won't forget this, even if I have to wait all the way to 2009!'
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Peanut Butter Pudding

Approximately two to five tablespoons of peanut butter. One bag of sugar. Combine peanut butter with sugar in a small glass. Stir with a fork for twenty-five minutes. A pinch of cinnamon is optional. Chill for twenty minutes, taste, and scrape into the garbage can.
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Staying Abreast

I'm not feeling well this morning. It's my belly. You see, I was raised on powdered milk, which left me with a calcium deficiency of the type that can only be cured by human breast milk. And I haven't been able to find a new donor. I don't know why she left. It can't have been the barehanded abortion I imposed on her when her back was turned. I warned her in advance that I can not tolerate another man's seed in the bosom of my wet nurses. Her milk was not too thick and not too watery. It was just right. Great with porridge.
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Crazy Kids

Back in the early 80's when I was on the run with my first band, The Bedbugs, me and my girlfriend, Amanda, used to get thrown out of bowling alleys. She was sort of a groupie of mine. Body of a dancer. She was into my poetry. She wanted to move into the basement with me at my parent's house, but they didn't like her. She kept blocking the driveway with her tricycle. She tried to commit suicide over me. She was distraught at being stuck with me instead of this other DJ guy. We lasted for sixteen weeks; long enough to make it to second base. Then one night we were down in her basement, doing hot tweezers on her Easy Bake Oven. She dropped one of the tweezer tokes on the floor and got it mixed up with a mouse dropping. Then she gave it to me. It was terrible. It felt like the tragic ending to The Deer Hunter. I had to dump her after that. You need to be able to trust your girlfriend.
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Give Me a Simple Wife

You really have to give Ella Fitzgerald credit for writing a song for mashed potato lovers and leaving in blank spaces for them to 'skoobidy-oobbidy'. I consider such music timeless and unconstrained by genre.
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Reader's Migraine

This afternoon I had some spare time. I stayed undressed and went out on the balcony to find my tickle truck. And my cardigan. Got out my picture pages and magic crayons and made a drawing of my dream man. I'm expecting him to save my life at some future point. After a car accident. I'm not putting away my picture pages, though. I want them to last forever.
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The Decade After

I was just listening back to some songs I used to be excellent at singing back in the early 70's. I'm telling you, I had a beautiful voice then. Ask anyone. I was like another Maureen McCormick or Julie Andrews. Supertramp, too. I could wail. And my voice was naturally high enough to pull out my vibrato on almost every note. And my vibrato was perfect. My voice jiggled in perfect time to the music. Each jiggle should make up 1/16 of each measure in which it is sung. I could pull it off without even keeping count in my head. Now I can only do it with whistling. Times have changed. But inside I'm still just as beautiful and glamorous as ever.
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For the Record

I didn't really have acne scars in Grade Three. Those were pock marks from when my older brothers would wrap barbed wire around my mattress and then push me onto it face down and get my baby brother to jump on my back. But they only did it when I was bad, like if they caught me reading one of their porno magazines.
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What Did You Call Me?

The origin of the term, half-assed, to indicate lack of effort has just occurred to me after watching a favourite talk show where the term was used liberally. I'm more than fifty percent sure that it is about how the ass is affected by work. If the work is light, only one cheek gets flexed. Hard work forces us to flex our whole asses.
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Pillow Talk

Geez, Poofy, what are you supposed to do when you awaken prematurely from such a hot dream? And you look around you and there are no female cats in sight to help you find relief? I'll tell you what I do. I take it out on YOU! HOLD STILL, POOFY!

Forms of Language

Conformer: A person that adheres to the prevailing group mentality when it is necessary.

Conformist: A person that believes in adhering to the prevailing group mentality.

Performer: A person who expresses their individuality when it is necessary.

Performist: A performer who finds it necessary to walk improperly across densely populated intersections.

Playing It Safe

After seeing the ending of the 1973 movie, The Wicker Man, I realize that I have finally overcome my childhood fear of Scottish people. I no longer expect them to drag me off and sacrifice me for being a virgin, even though I'm not. That was just one bad island over there that probably just needed a few more pubs. It sparked a few thoughts about religion and its rituals. I thought of how wine found its way into the Sunday mass. Wine used to be considered sacred. When you got drunk, it was a blessing. So I figure they originally included wine drinking to make sure everyone felt blessed by the service; even the ones who weren't paying attention.
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Dear Pooky

November 3, 1943 Dear Pooky, It's my birthday today and I'm going to draw a card for myself. There aren't many birthday gifts lying around these days, but even through this terrible conflict, I refuse to lose faith in people. I still believe they are good inside. Take street urchins. They smell like urine and are always trying to pick your pocket, but if you take one off the streets and teach him manners and dress him up in clean clothes, why, he'd be just like you. (But still not even approaching me.) Take the death squads. Take any one of those brutes out of his unit. Give him a happy new wardrobe. And maybe rig him with a remotely controlled, subcutaneous, electronic torture instrument, which you could use to shock him every time he refuses or fails to demonstrate kindness. Eventually, they'd be just like you. You might only need to be careful, when you are forcing him to pet the puppy, not to accidentally shock the dog.
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Counting My Splashings

When I'm enjoying my hot shower with good, strong water pressure, immediately following my hot bath, sometimes I pause to reflect on whoever out there in this cruel world might be stuck in a desert somewhere, plodding stoically through the sand, buckets in hand, to the well; the new well that started out as a thriving marketplace...
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Friendship Lasts Forever

A lot of folks get tired of their pop stars after a while and abandon them. Not me. I'm loyal. The Spice Girls had an important message to share with the world. It was about how you had to be if you want to be their lover. If you want to be their lover, you got to get with their friends, making love forever... I take this to mean you have to score with their friends first and somehow stay friends afterward, as in, friendship never ends. It's good to know this beforehand. If you want to be their lover, you have got to give. Taking is too easy, but that's the way it is. Taking is too easy. Who would know it better than someone who is always on the receiving end of the relationship? By lying there and leaving you to do all the giving, they are sparing you the grief of doing something that is too easy. What a sacrifice! Now that's love. It's a positive message. There's love out there for anyone who is willing to give it. And others who might need some kind of active participation from their love partner can content themselves with knowing that they wouldn't be any happier with what's available than they would be with an inflatable doll. Who'd want a bag of bones any more than they'd want a bag of air? I want neither. But I must admit, hypothetically speaking, that the former would be an improvement upon water balloons and lotion.
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The Helicopter Dance

I wouldn't make too much fuss about my bronze medal from the '88 Olympics. That's right, a bronze for Canada in men's streamer twirling that summer. However, there were only two other competitors. I would have done better if I didn't break my stick.
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Struggling for Realism

Those strangling scenes in the movies are so fake. It takes a much longer time to kill someone like that. Even then, you might only make them pass out. Then you'd have to rush to find a big, heavy rock or a bowling ball or maybe a good, solid iron or something to bash their skull while they were immobilized. They probably wouldn't even feel it. But I wouldn't know. Even though this might use up more production time, I think they should extend these strangling scenes. Hang the expense.
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Dear Pooky

Out of respect for the memory of famous diarist, Jane Blank, certain details about her blossoming into womanhood were omitted from the final copy. September 17, 1943 Dear Pooky, Today I switched over to cucumbers from carrots. It's hard to find fresh vegetables with the war on, so I must hide them in my drawer with my unmentionables. I hope I'll be ready for David. He's the only boy here and I'm in love with him because he reminds me of Peter. September 21, 1943 Dear Pooky, I left out my cucumber on the desktop and papa found it. He was very hungry and wanted to eat it without peeling the skin off first. I was about to tell him not to eat it, but then I thought the better of it. Gee, Pooky! I hope he never finds you and reads this! October 9, 1943 Dear Pooky, I ran out of newspapers today. The German ones are more absorbent than the Hungarian ones. Curse this war! Papa found a big bag of sawdust from the Black Market, and we had a father-daughter afternoon, spreading it around my room, all over my bed and my chair and the floor.
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Clam You

There's a Twilight Zone from the original series about a child with omnipotent powers. He rules the Earth like a tyrant. Children, entirely unpretentious, allow their Freudian beasts to run wild, especially at play. This beast is akin to both the little devil with your face that sits on your shoulder, whispering in your ear to go ahead and do bad things, and the alien monster, disguised as a friendly angel, from the Star Trek episode, And the Children Shall Lead. In my case, I used to like stomping my foot in shallow water to make those underwater sand clouds that mimicked a bomber's view of a successfully released payload. And I used to make the explosion sound while I did it. I just thought it looked cool. And it gave me a sense of power - but not over the sharp-edged clams, sticking up from their cleverly dug trenches.
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