A Feather Will Do Well For Such a Shift

Someone recently reminded me of the therapeutic, life-altering value of turning misery into a funny story. And no, it wasn’t this guy:

Although, you know, bully for him. May he do whatever it is politicians from Minnesota do (besides get beat by wrestlers and other show-biz types), and may I be the last to make a Stuart Smalley joke at his expense. Even if Stuart Smalley himself knows I won't be.

It wasn’t this guy, either:

My Vanity Fair did arrive minutes afterwards, however, so it’s possible to make the argument that this time, at least, ol' Mavericky could have been a real contender. It would be specious, of course, but possible. (No, no, Sarah. I said specious, not spacious. It’s okay, you can have somebody look it up. Ooh, and ask them to read you the difference between “quitting” and “not quitting” while you’re at it, okay? Good.)

And since I seem to be on a theme here of week-old political humor, I might as well go ahead and point out that it wasn’t this guy either:

But good on you, sir. Not since “going postal” have I so enjoyed watching a colloquialism take shape before my eyes. Now shoo. Go hike yourself the Appalachian Trail.

And last but not least, It wasn't this guy:

He's too dumb to know that just because he can see the coffee through the plastic cup, doesn't mean he can get his face in there to taste it. He sure as heck wouldn't have anything to offer in the way of life-lessons -- at least none that don't involve killing things or reproducing. Hm. Maybe I should change his name to Maverick.

Anyhoodles, it was this guy:

He says I've been narky lately. And he says he knows I have good reasons, but he's getting fed up, and if I don't snap out of it he might just go home to Ireland for a couple weeks and leave me here to be narky at the walls. This frightened me, because one of the myriad things I'm narky about these days is money, and although for one second I thought to myself "Ha. You probably aren't capable of booking your own ticket!," I then remembered that he actually traveled a whole lot before we met (another thing I'm narky about is having to do everything around here; which maybe I could loosen up on a little bit), and he now had his very own American Express Card.

AmEx ain't like Visa, where you can charge it and pay two cents every thirty days until you die. And it ain't like cash, where you have to have it now. AmEx is a promise that you're gonna have it next month, which we won't.

Honey! I love you! I'm sorry! I'm not narky anymore! Look, I'm going in my office right this second to write a funny story about misery!


But first I'm going over here and ask QC a question, because I've been waiting two years to read her freaking book.