mychai's Diaryland Diary

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What happens when writer's block lifts

Wowsers.

Nothing at all out of the blue or in any way interesting happened today. Well, other than the fact that I got my license plates for my car. It no longer looks like a rental from Enterprise Rent-A-Car, but instead looks like a brand new car.

Except for the fact that I work at a television station. And literally feet from the back door I use to enter and exit the building ("back door" jokes begone) -- I'm talking less than ten feet here -- is our broadcasting tower. It is 778 feet of red and white metal dripping of yummy electromagnetic radiation. Think a really, really tall microwave.

But one thing that this giant antenna attracts more than anything are migratory birds. And we know what birds like to do to new cars.

I have big bird poop. Small bird poop. Runny bird poop. Bird poop that looks like dog poop. Black bird poop. Orange bird poop. Bird poop with remnants of blackberries. I have bird poop on my door handles. Bird poop on my tires.

If I could somehow box up bird poop and write up a nifty bird poop marketing scheme, I could become a kazillion-aire. Screw the lottery. I gots me some bird poop in a can, bay-beee.

I could get the mortally annoying Dick Vitale to say something like, "Bird poop is awesome, baby, with a capital 'A'!" I could get the increasingly illogical Al Gore to say something like, "I invented bird poop."

(speaking of which... did you see Conan O'Brian last week start one of his jokes by saying, "So... Al Gore my be running for president again!" And not a single noise came from the crowd. Conan got this look in his eyes as if he just opened a garbage bag full of... well... bird poop. Finally, someone in the audience said, "Booooo." Everyone laughed. It was good times.)

Thankfully, though, I live very close to a gas station that has a car wash connected to it. And, if you fill up your gas tank on Sunday or Monday, you receive a free car wash. My car sees the car wash pretty regularly.

I'm always afraid that they are going to catch on and have a guy inspecting cars for rediculously large amounts of bird poop. He will turn me away because I have been stopping up the drains, and I will eventually be driving the Bird Poop Mobile.

Kids will scream as I drive by. Big, bulky men will shield the tender eyes of their wives. I will receive at least one death threat each day. My quality of life will spiral downward towards a hellish existance of living in back alleys and eating from dumpsters. I will be known around the town as "Poop Boy."

So, screw you, KOMU TV-8! Screw you and your 100,000 wats of televised entertainment. I don't need your dirty money!

10:32 p.m. - Mon., Dec. 9, 2002

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