I went to the gas station today to buy a candy bar. And that's where things went awry.....

CASHIER: I see you're buying a S'Mores bar.
ME: Yes.
CASHIER: You know, that was my grandfather's name.
ME: S'Mores?
CASHIER: Yes.
ME: Oh. His first name or his last name?
CASHIER: His last name.
ME: Ok. Well, thanks.
CASHIER: (in a whisper) You should watch out. My grandfather was very good with the ladies.

Then he winked.

I'm never buying anything again.

I would like to enter a pie-eating contest, I think, but only eat one piece of pie.

People would say, "One piece of pie? You are the loser of the pie-eating contest."

And then I would say,

"I got free pie. AND no stomachache. Who's the real winner here?"

Now, that I'm done PLAYING a mouse, I have a lot more time to talk about playing a mouse.

Oh no, you're saying, not another blog about a girl in a mouse outfit. Seems like everyone's donning a gray unitard and mouse ears and trying to capitalize on it.

Well me too. So suck up and enjoy it, I say.

The main thing you should know is this: A fun game to play whilst changing into costumes on tour is "Who Can Stay Naked On the Set the Longest Before the Kids Show Up To See the Show."

It's a sick game, but somebody's gotta play it.

The Texas House of Representatives just approved a bill to ban sexually suggestive dancing in cheerleading routines.

Future legislation will include banning music at orchestra concerts and jumping at basketball games.

And that's all I have to say about that.

(Tomorrow I do four--no really, four--shows. And then I'm done. DONE! No more playing a mouse for me. Well, except just for fun in my living room. So soon I shall be back to writing on a fairly regular basis except for when I'm too lazy to do so.)

The Vatican is reviewing reports of "miracles" attributed to John Paul II, so he can be made a saint.

In the New York Times, one Italian cardinal claims that John Paul II cured his paralyzed vocal cords by touching him on the throat while they had lunch together. He said, "After that I did seven months of therapy and was able to speak again."

Sigh.....

The Vatican also reports that a touch from the Pope and two aspirin will cure a headache.

Miraculous.

I think allergies are God's way of saying, "I don't want Spring to be TOO much fun."

Allergies: Nature's little hangover.

I've decided that I need to do more scriptwriting.

Or, more accurately, I decided that I need to get PAID to do more scriptwriting. For a sitcom, preferably.

And to get a job writing for a sitcom, you first have to write what's called a "spec script." That's where you write a sample episode for a sitcom that's already running, so they can hire you to write for an entirely different show.

I don't understand it either.

So my question is this: Which sitcom should I write a spec script for?

I figure you guys read my writing every day. You probably have a better idea what I can write for than I do. Also, I'm lazy. So tell me what sitcom you think I would write well for....

Here are some answers I anticipate receiving:

1) "All sitcoms suck nowadays."--I recognize this fact. And as much as I'd like to write a spec script for "Three's Company," or "The Dukes of Hazzard" or "Small Wonder" (remember, the little girl who was a robot?), I can't. It has to be a currently running show. Which, in case you're wondering, also rules out "Everybody Loves Ramond" because it's ending this season.

2) "I'm not from America and I don't watch your stupid sitcoms."--Good for you. You are probably smarter for it.

3) "How could you ever write for a sitcom when you can't manage to write in your blog on a regular basis, you lazy lazy girl?"--Sigh.... I know I know.

Oh well, if you have any suggestions, I'll gladly take them. Otherwise I shall continue to write Princess Jill stories instead of scripts. Not so lucrative, but fun somehow.

An addendum to my previous entry:

I think that, if the naked pictures guy was a porn star, his porn name would be Girth Brooks.

That's all.

PRINCESS JILL AND THE NAKED PICTURES
a not-quite fictional story by Jill Twiss

Once upon a time there was a lovely girl named Princess Jill. Just in case the title is confusing, there will be no naked pictures of HER in this story. Not even if you ask nicely and offer her free gum.

Princess Jill was having rather a rough day. The kind of rough day that makes you want to hide under your Batmobile bed for thirteen weeks and knit wool caps. If you are the kind of person who knows how to knit wool caps, which Princess Jill isn't.

Anyway, to make a long story still fairly long, on this particular rough day, Princess Jill had been splendidly driving her car when someone decided to smash into it with their crappy car and squoosh it.

There was some squooshing of Princess Jill as well. Altogether too much squooshing for one day was the verdict that Princess Jill came to after not-so-much deliberation.

Five paragraphs in and no naked pictures. Don't think I've forgotten. Nobody ever forgets about naked pictures. Just ask Paris Hilton.

(NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: I honestly thought I would make it through life without ever making a Paris Hilton joke. But there it is. It just popped out. I didn't plan it. Pretend it never happened and return to your regularly scheduled story.)

Well after said squooshing, Princess Jill called up the Director-of-Her-Play and asked him to drive her to the hospital.

Now it should be stated that Princess Jill didn't know the Director-of-Her-Play ESPECIALLY well. He just happened to live in her neighborhood and thusly was a prime candidate to pick her up and drive her to the hospital. This would explain the communication difficulties that promptly ensued.

You see, when Princess Jill said,

Will you drive me to the hospital?

Director-of-Her-Play naturally assumed that what she meant was

Will you pull over to the side of the road and randomly pull out naked pictures of yourself?

Just a communication issue, I'm certain. Happens all the time. It's really a huge source of confusion for ambulance drivers.

Which explains the further miscommunication that occurred when Princess Jill said:

Ummm....what the hell are you doing?

Because Director-of-Her-Play clearly interpreted it to mean:

Please comment several times on your 'girth.' After all, I did just get hit by a car. And there's nothing I like more after a good car-hitting then a hearty discussion of 'girth' and some naked pictures.

Interestingly after all this, Director-of-Her-Play put away the naked pictures and drove her to the hospital where Princess Jill found out she had no broken bones at all. Not even one.

And Princess Jill lived happily ever after.

THE END

MORAL: If you want someone to say complimentary things about your "girth," maybe you should make sure that s/he actually WANTS to see your "girth" and/or has any interest at ALL in your "girth."

MORAL II: Maybe your "girth" isn't as great as you think it is. I'm just saying....

(ANOTHER NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: Fear not, this particular incident happened a while ago. I just never got to write about it. So I'm ok and my car is ok. Thank you for asking.)

Alas, I can't get to sleep tonight. I am told, repeatedly, that the cure for this is to count sheep.

Counting sheep is supposed to make you go to sleep because it’s boring. Just a bunch of sheep jumping over a fence. Terribly uninteresting, really.

Except not.

Because, no matter what I do, my sheep always end up becoming interesting. I try to keep them boring, I really do. But frankly, I'm stuck with fascinating sheep. There's no getting around it.

Sure the first few will just bound along and hop merrily over the fence as all good sheep do (well, not really. Because, quite honestly, when have we seen a sheep jump over a fence? Or jump at all really? My guess is never. Not even if you train them and offer them exciting incentives like free cake or a 401K plan. Sheep are really quite stationary. And I feel that I am an authority on this in that I have lived in Idaho. A state where sheep are quite prominent, really. Along with potatoes. Potatoes and sheep---two things in Idaho that don't like to jump. Now horses, they jump. This is why they have horse jumping competitions and no sheep jumping competitions at all. At least none that I’ve ever seen. Not even in Idaho. Which has lots of sheep.)

Anyway, my first few sheep do what they’re supposed to. They jump over the fence and bore me like nobody’s business. But, invariably, just as I’m dozing off, one of the sheep will mess up. Miss the fence, or trip, or something of the like. And then it’s like an episode of “America’s Funniest Home Videos” (as an aside, didn’t that used to be a good show? Did the show get crappier or did I just get older? Maybe men getting hit in the crotch with things isn’t as funny as it used to be when I was 11). The line of sheep gets messed up, wool is flying everywhere, and I’m awake again.

Failed at yet another attempt at counting sheep.

Good night.

(This is from the archives. I am still playing a singing, dancing mouse. It's exhausting. Sometimes when I'm driving to work, and someone cuts me off, and I yell and shake my fist at them, I find that they just laugh at me. It's hard to be threatening whilst wearing mouse makeup. And that's all there is to say about that.)