If I knew I was dying soon, and I said something really clever, I think I'd just stop talking entirely.

Because you never hear anybody say, "You know, her third-to-the-last words were...."

I am presently in South Dakota, spending the holidays with my family. This means my blogging shall probably be sporatic due to lack of computer access.

Of course, it is equally likely that I shall be blogging ALL THE TIME as an excuse to get away from my family. One can not be sure at this point.

But tonight it's story time. This is where I tell a wonderous story (perhaps based on real-life events) with a moral that every one of us can learn from. Even Martha Stewart. So drink some hot chocolate whilst you read a lovely fable about an even lovelier girl named Princess Jill.


PRINCESS JILL AND THE CRAZY LADY ON THE AIRPLANE TO SOUTH DAKOTA
a barely-fictional story, by Jill Twiss

Once upon a time, there was a lovely girl named Princess Jill. If you haven't heard of her, you should probably do some research. Because she's awfully lovely.

Princess Jill was traveling by airplane to the Kingdom of South Dakota for Christmas. Why, you ask, would anyone travel to the Kingdom of South Dakota? What do they have there besides buffalo and forest fires and the occasional Tom Daschle? And I would answer, shut up and sit down and listen to the story or I'm going to have to lock you in a closet.

Did I mention that Princess Jill was lovely?

In any case, you might guess that when one must take an airplane to the Kingdom of South Dakota, one must take an airplane approximately the size of one's thumbnail. For, you see, REAL airplanes don't fly to South Dakota. They know better. They know that there will be no fun, exciting airplane parties there. There will be no airplane rap concerts to attend. There will be no hot female airplanes there. Thusly, the only airplanes that will fly to the Kingdom of South Dakota are the scrawny little ones that all the other airplanes make fun of because they barely have any seats and they still think it's cool to wear propellors.

The other SPLENDID thing about these miniature so-called-airplanes is that the seats are eensy. Bitsy, really. So when you're sitting next to someone, you're really sitting next to them in the biblical sense. If you know what I mean (which I don't, exactly. But I feel that someone might.)

Well Princess Jill had the fortunate luck to get to sit "next" to a CHARMING woman on the pseudo-airplane. And it didn't take long for Princess Jill to figure out exactly how charming this woman was.

Stewardess: I apologize that it's so cold in here. I assure you that it will warm up after take off.

Crazy Woman: (illustrating her point by elbowing Princess Jill in the ribs sharply) It's not cold if you're in MENOPAUSE!!

(note from author: Yes, she really did say MENOPAUSE in capital letters)

Princess Jill: Oh.

Crazy Woman: (elbowing Princess Jill again) There is water on the front of my pants. It is NOT because I peed. Although I could NOT find the button to flush the toilet in the bathroom. Do you think I need my insulin? (She pulls out a syringe)

Princess Jill: Ummmmm.....

Crazy Woman: I don't think so. It' s a short flight. Do we have to pay $5 for water here? Mine is on my pants.

Princess Jill: I don't think so.

Crazy Woman: Stewardess, bring me a Jack Daniels.

Stewardess: Would you like ice?

Crazy Woman: No. I don't even need a glass. (Crazy Woman proceeds to drink the Jack Daniels straight from the bottle in one long drink, happily spilling none on her pants.)

Princess Jill: Ummmmm.... (Princess Jill crosses her legs so as to curl up in a little ball and get as far away from the Crazy Lady as humanly possible)

Crazy Lady: (HITS Princess Jill on the arm. No really. Hits her. When Princess Jill looks shocked, Crazy Lady hits her again on the thigh.) What are you DOING?

Princess Jill: Ummmmm.....

Crazy Lady: Crossing your legs? What's wrong with you? Why do you think I'm like this? Why do you think I'm as messed up as I am today?

Princess Jill: Ummmm....

Crazy Lady: Because I crossed my legs when I was younger. And now look at me.

And she didn't talk again for the rest of the flight.

And Princess Jill lived happily ever after.

THE END.

MORAL: Don't cross your legs. Or you know what will happen. This means you Martha Stewart.

MORAL II: If you choose to ride on an airplane, do not, for any reason, bring nail clippers. Because they will be confiscated. However, if you are insane and slightly violent and would like to bring a SYRINGE and several needles, this is perfectly acceptable and even encouraged.

For the first time in about three weeks, I'm doing a comedy show. This is because I have been busy getting punched in the face and writing scripts and such. And frankly I'm a little bit scared.

But should you happen to be nearby, you should come and look friendly.

Tonight...Friday, Dec. 17
Dillions (on 54th btw. B-way and 8th, North side of the street)
10 pm show
$7 cover, $10 food or drink minimum

(Also I posted something from the archives about comedy roasts. Because I went to my first real-live roast the other night. It was terribly exciting. I even got roasted a teensy bit. I won't tell you what they said, though. You shall be forced to form your own opinions. But someday I should have a blog roast, shouldn't I?)

The Oscars are tonight.

When we think an actor or actress is among the best in business, we hold a wonderful gala event celebrating their talent. We give them trophies and gift bags and we let them make speeches.

A couple of weeks ago, they had the Grammy Awards.When we think a singer or musician is among the best in the business, we also hold a wonderful gala event celebrating their talent. We give them tropies and gift bags and we let them make speeches.

You know what comedians get when we think they're among the best in the business? A roast.

A roast is when all of your other comedian friends get up onstage at the Friar's Club and say mean things about you. No trophies. No gift bag. And the speeches are all people saying mean things about you.

If I ever get good enough to be roasted by the Friars, I think I will tell them the day before,

"Thank you very much for this great honor. I hope you enjoy yourselves immensely at the roast and say plenty of mean things about me. I, on the other hand, will be staying home and taking a bath."

Unless, of course, there's a gift bag.

When I was five years old, I made the big decision.

Yes, the "what do I want to be when I grow up" decision.

And I didn't want to be a doctor or a lawyer or the King of Prussia. I didn't even want to be a stand-up comedian.

No, at the age of five, I declared to the world that I wanted to be a Drinking Fountain Critic.

I would write for all the best newspapers and travel guides. I would travel around the world trying different drinking fountains, and writing things like:

Today I had the pleasure of sampling a drinking fountain at the end of the hallway on the third floor of Duluth Elementary School. You know, the one next to the bulletin board with all the "Turkey Hand" pictures.

And let me tell you, folks, I found a real hidden gem.

The temperature was perfect, not too warm but not mouth-numbing either. The flavor was delectable--almost tasteless, with just a hint of chlorine. And the water pressure? A dream. There are fire hydrants with less water pressure than this underused drinking fountain. Finally (and I dread to tell you this for fear that there will be minutes-long lines at the drinking fountain from now on), some quick investigation led me to find out that this water is FLUORIDATED. Pinch me, and tell me I'm not dreaming.

So folks, if you ever find yourself parched in Duluth, let me tell you, it's well worth that walk up three flights of stairs.

Well of course I grew out of that stage after a year or two.

But just last night I decided.....

I think I'm growing back into it.

At the drugstore today, I saw a book called, "God's Path to Healing Prostate."

Not, "God's Path to Healing THE Prostate."

So, almost more disturbing than the fact that God has a path to healing prostates, is the fact that God apparently talks like Tarzan.

"I Tarzan. "

"You Jane."

"We heal prostate."

I went to Therapy today.

Apparently when someone robs you and punches you in the face, the world decides that you need Therapy.

I personally think that it might just be him, the punch-er that needs Therapy. Not me, the punch-ee. I, the punch-ee, might just need ice cream and a distinct lack of face-punching for a while. Also maybe a snow globe.

Nevertheless, I went.

And let me tell you this, friends: Therapy is FUN.

I'm not sure I ever put this together before, but Therapy is a person getting paid to listen to me talk about myself.

And I love talking about myself. It's one of my favorite hobbies. Additional hobbies include juggling and spelling things wrong.

And I didn't even have to pay him to listen to me. The State of New York pays him to listen to me. I guess this is their punishment for being so stupid as to allow someone to punch me in the face in the first place. Ha.

So now that I'm all sane and stuff, I hope that you all still like me.

Because, if not, I'll tell my therapist.

(This is from the archives. I am still diligently writing scripts. But I will be done soon. And assuming no one else decides to punch me in the face, I will go back to writing splendid bits of humorous-ness quite soon. But I figured that since I had so many new Brits reading my blog, they could clear up this bit of madness that's confused me ever since 11th grade history:)

Geography is not my strong point.

I'm not sure what my strong point IS, but we can safely rule out geography.

I think eating donuts while watching cartoons might be my strong point. But I digress...To be fair, though, I think that Europe makes it a little difficult for us (makes geography difficult, that is. Not eating donuts. We're pretty good at that.)

Like what's with that whole England/Great Britain/United Kingdom thing? Am I the only one that can't keep them straight?I am convinced that Europe does this deliberately so as to confuse us. It is part of a keenly crafted plan.

You see, if America ever gets really angry with this particular area of the world and decides to launch an attack, I think the scenario will go something like this:

TOUGH ARMY GUY (brandishing a large weapon): Hey, we're here to attack Great Britain!

THE BRITISH (in charming British accent): Oh, no no no, this is England.

TOUGH ARMY GUY: Really? Oh, sorry dude. Our mistake. Can you tell us how to get to Great Britain, then?

THE BRITISH: Oh sure. It's...uhhhhh...right below North Dakota.

TOUGH ARMY GUY: Right below North Dakota? Wouldn't that be....South Dakota?

THE BRITISH: Nope, England. Errrr...I mean, Great Britain.

TOUGH ARMY GUY: Oh. Well, I guess we came a long way for nothing. Well talley ho, then.

THE BRITISH (gleefully): Tee hee! We fooled them.

TOUGH ARMY GUY (whilst checking out a map, several hours later): Rats!! Foiled again!

INDISPUTABLE PROOF THAT I HAVE OFFICIALLY COMPLETELY LOST IT

We all know that I've been going crazy for a while now. Between the five jobs I'm currently working (no really. Five.) and the other extra-super-crappiness that's been going on, I'm slowly losing the little grasp I had on reality.

But today was the clincher. Today was the "just give up now, Jill, because you're never going to be sane again" moment.

Today I actually sent out an email that said the following:

Joe--

You should do this :)

--Jill

That's it.

That was the entire email. Nothing else.

Not a single inkling of what I thought that Joe should do. Nothing. And I didn't give it a second thought. Seemed like a perfectly normal email to me.

Sigh....

Now I'm going to get forty-seven cats and name them all Phil. It seems the only thing to do under the circumstances. Because you can't be the crazy lady next door without cats. And that's clearly where I'm headed.

Buh bye, sanity. It was nice knowing you, however briefly.

I think it would be fun to go to a pilates class with an eye-patch on and a parrot on my shoulder.

When people looked at me funny, I would say, "Pilates? Oh, I thought the sign said "Pirates."

Then I'd pick up my parrot and leave.

(This is from the archives. I, Jill Twiss, am writing scripts today. The bad news is I am really terribly behind due to all the madness that's been going on in my life that I really won't complain about again in this post. The good news is, this is my first real-life professional comedy writing gig. Sparkle hands for that.)

They say that you're not a real New Yorker till you've been mugged.

Well, as you read about a couple days ago, I'm a real, honest-to-goodness New Yorker.

In fact, since I was mugged AND assaulted, I feel that I'm probably two New Yorkers. At least.

But I'm pretty much ok. And I don't even have a bump on my head anymore. So I keep reminding myself that it could have been much, much worse.

And then today it was.

In the mail today, I got a $175 ambulance bill. Mind you, I never called an ambulance.

I even asked the police not to call the ambulance, telling them that, as a stand-up comedian, I have no health insurance and could not afford to pay for an ambulance. They called it anyway.

Then when the ambulance arrived, I signed like four papers saying I refused service. And the paramedics did nothing other than hand me kleenex and tell me that, if I insisted on refusing service, I might go into a coma.

Yet today I get a bill saying, "Even though you refused to be transported, you still owe a fee because we were required to come out on your behalf."

I was really hoping to get back to writing jokes on here. Or fun stuff. But I just had to bitch one last time. Because now, not only was my money stolen, but I have a $175 bill to boot. I must have been really, really bad in another life.

At least I'm not in a coma.

Overheard whilst in line at the grocery store:

Cashier: Yeah, I'm not getting married. I've tried that before.
Customer: Well, is he out of prison at least?
Cashier: No. And that woman keeps visiting him in prison.
Customer: Oh yeah. His baby's mama?
Cashier: No, not his baby's mama. Some other woman he's sleeping with.

I was struck by two thoughts as I listened to this:

1) Just when I start to think my life sucks, I get a little reminder of how it's not really so bad at all.

2) I gotta start shopping at a new grocery store.