Rejected.

By a comedy club, to boot.

They liked me, but they didn't like like me.

They want to see other comedians.

It's not me, it's them.

As for me? Well, I think I may have sprained my heart.

Don't worry, it's not broken.

I just need to stay off it for a while.

THE TIME I ROUNDED UP BUFFALO WITH THE GOVERNOR
(for realsies this time)

Once upon a time there was a girl named me.

I am the hero of this story.

Some of the supporting characters in this story are the former Governor of South Dakota, some cowboys, my dad, and a gaggle of buffalo.

It sounds a lot like a Kevin Costner film but it's not

A background piece of information in this story (which, if it WERE a Kevin Costner film, would be printed in white letters at the beginning of the movie, perhaps superimposed over pictures of some sad-looking Native Americans) is that my father was sort of friends with the at-that-time Governor of South Dakota.

It's not so impressive, really. Since there are like eight people that live in South Dakota, the odds of being friends with the Governor (or being the Governor) are essentially as high as owning a pick-up truck, or listening to country music, or not being allowed to have an abortion.

Back to the story: It's hard to remember how it all came about, but I do remember my father approaching me and saying, "How would you like to go to the buffalo roundup?"

Two thoughts immediately entered my head:

1) I would LOVE to go to the buffalo roundup.

2) What is the buffalo roundup?

My father explained that every year, some charming cowboys round up all the buffalo (thousands) in Custer State Park and put them in corrals so that they can brand them (now presenting new Calvin Klein buffalo) and test them for diseases.

And yes I would like to go to that, thank you.

But here is the part that would, if this were a movie, be referred to as the "plot twist" . You know, the part where the attractive but fairly grouchy ice-skater gets paired up with the also-attractive yet pushy hockey star with no experience and, together, they must win the Olympic gold medal?

That part.

You see, a key thing that my father forgot to mention is that *I* would be expected to help round up the buffalo. I, Jill Twiss, a girl whose hobbies include reading, playing the clarinet, and not-rounding-up-stuff.

There is a video of the buffalo roundup here.

See those crazy people in trucks driving beside the buffalo? Those people are me. Well, no. Those exact people aren't exactly me. But they are me-esque in that they are riding in cars amidst the buffalo trying desperately to sell them on the idea that corrals aren't such a bad place, really.

That was my job.

My mission was to lean out the window of the truck and yell at the buffalo until they ran toward the corrals. What does one yell at a buffalo, you ask? Good question, chum. I tried, "Excuse me, but could you move a little to the left, sir" and "Perhaps you'd be happier if you were running full speed ahead into that corral over there," but apparently I just don't have a gift for yelling at buffalo.

Now on that particular video there is not a certain truck that is driving faster than all the other trucks, directly into the gaggle of buffalo. A certain truck that is driving full speed ahead toward a cliff. A certain truck driven by no other than the Governor of South Dakota.

That was the certain exact truck from which I was yelling at aforementioned buffaloes.

There are moments in your life where you say to yourself, "Well, I don't want to die. But if I have to die, dying in a speeding car driving off a cliff into a herd of buffalo is certainly a fascinating way to die."

On a side note, you know that song about buffaloes roaming? Well, I'm here to tell you they don't so much roam as run at you at 40 miles per hour and try to stomp on your car. But "stomp on your car" doesn't rhyme with "home," you see. Neither does "stick their horns through your sternum." So probably "roam" was the best choice given the rhyme scheme.

We're almost to the end of the story. Don't worry, it has a mostly happy ending.

I didn't die at all nor was I gored by a buffalo. And all the buffalo got put in the corrals and became brand-name buffalo instead of generic ones.

THE END

p.s.1. Have you noticed that all my stories have really long beginnings and terribly short middles and ends? I have noticed that too and I shall work on it.

p.s.2. If you are a regular reader of my blog, you probably recognize this post from sometime last year. Why, you ask, would Jill betray us by re-posting something from last year? Well, 'tis because somebody wrote an article that mentions my blog, see. And I felt that my last post begging for happy-birthdays wasn't such a splendid way to portray myself to new readers. You know, if there are any. So I put up an old story that makes me happy. You can live with that, right?

I thought so.

I feel in my innermost being that my readers are wishing and clamoring for another story from the life of me.

So a story it is:

THE TIME I ROUNDED UP BUFFALO WITH THE GOVERNOR
by Jill Twiss

I know what you're thinking.

"'Rounding up buffalo with the Governor' sounds like a euphemism for masturbation. Is this a story about masturbation, Jill?"

Although I agree with you about the excellence of that euphemism and encourage you to use it regularly until it catches on and is used in an episode of "Desperate Housewives," the answer to your question is no. This is not a story about masturbation.

"But if it were a story about masturbation, would it be about a boy masturbating or a girl masturbating?"

While I must insist that this is NOT a story about masturbation, I will say that if it were a story about masturbation, it would definitely be about a boy masturbating.

That is because I feel sure that a girl would never refer to her lady-parts as 'The Governor.' '

She might refer to them as The Senior Senator from Oklahoma.' But never 'The Governor.'

So now that we've clarified that this is definitely a story about a boy masturbating.....

Oh no, wait. You guys are very tricky.

Sigh....

I'm getting confused now. I think I'd better finish this tomorrow.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Happy Birthday-Eve, you say?

Why thank you.

If you don't mind, I'm going to go get on a plane now and fly back to New York.

I hope the stewardess bakes me a cake.

Kalamazoo, Michigan.

It's a real place. I can vouch for that because I visited there.

Not on purpose, mind you---it was just that United Airlines thought I needed to spend some time there.

To be clear, I don't think anyone goes to Kalamazoo, Michigan on purpose. It would be more honest if they called it My-Plane-Had-To-Make-An-Emergency-Landing, Michigan. Or On-One-Hand-We're-Glad-We-Didn't-Die-In-A-Fiery-Plane-Crash
But-This-Isn't-So-Great-Either, Michigan. Or possibly Does-The-Airport-Restaurant-REALLY-Consist-Of-One-Guy-And
A-Microwave, Michigan.

Although "Kalamazoo" sounds a little more zany than any of those excellent name choices. Sort of like what a magician might yell right before he saws his lovely assistant in half or pulls a cute bunny out of a hat (also he might yell, "I'm sure as hell never going to wear THIS hat again.")

My stay in Kalamazoo would have been far nicer, I think, if there had been more bunny-hat-pulling and less telling us that our airplane was broken and we needed to take a bus to Chicago.

It's not that I hate buses, mind you. Buses are quite nice in their own right. They drive places and pick up people and oftentimes the drivers don't even smell bad. But when one is expecting to take a plane and arrive lickety-split and instead must take a bus and arrive lickety-slow, and especially when one has a driver that doesn't even know how to GET to Chicago, one might be a little disappointed. And by "disappointed," I mean that one might have a bus full of people yelling and screaming in perfect harmony (that verse wasn't in the Coca Cola commercial) for four hours.

Sometimes four hours feels very exactly much like eleven hours.

In fact, I suspect that the very few people that LIVE in Kalamazoo, Michigan only do so because THEIR plane had to make an emergency landing but they realized that moving to an entirely new town where they knew no one and finding a new jobs and new houses and new furniture would STILL be less painful than taking a bus from Kalamazoo to Chicago.

In retrospect, they may have had the right idea.

AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION WITH THE ONLY PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE WHO MAKES ME LOOK TECHNOLOGICALLY SKILLED:

Dad: So I've decided I want to burn a CD on I-Tunes.

Me: Oh, that sounds like a good idea. Did you make a playlist?

Dad: Oh. No. I was just going to delete every piece of music in my library that I didn't want on the CD and then burn what was left. Your idea sounds better.

Me: Sigh.... You think there's little elves typing in the fax machine too, don't you Dad?

Do you use Microsoft Word?

I do.

I like it because when I'm writing a letter, a charming little paper clip comes up and says, "It looks like you're writing a letter. Would you like help?"

Yes please, chum. I would like help. You can write the whole letter if you like. I'm not fussy. Just sign my name at the bottom.

If people were more like paper clips, this world would be a better place ("It looks like you're cleaning your apartment. Would you like help?" Or "It looks like you're needing cookies. Would you like help?" Yes indeedy, my friend. Yes indeedy.)

Of course, if people were really like paper clips, they would spend far too much time holding papers together to really do any apartment-cleaning. Besides, aren't paper clips really just staples that were never able to do the job in any sort of permanent way? Paper clips are the loaner cars of the office supply world. But I digress....

So yes, we've established that I like letter-writing and helpful paper clips. They are the happy side of Microsoft Word. But there is another side, friends. A dark, dank, evil side.

Yes, Paper-Clip-of-Doom, now you've gone too far.

I discovered yesterday that Microsoft Word has a template for a High School Diploma.

That's right. You know that thing you get when you go to classes and STUDY for four years? Well yes, with the help of a charming paper clip, you can get it on Microsoft Word in about forty-two seconds.

"It looks like your job at the gas station doesn't pay enough money to fund that sixth abortion and now you wish you'd actually listened in your algebra class instead of smoking pot in the bathroom. Would you like help?"

I can only assume that the law and medical degree templates come with Windows Vista.