...but it's kind of putting the cart before the horse. It's like writing some fantastic book about my life, or fancying myself the grand new American incarnation of America's new George Carlin --who would never play to you people, I assure you. He would never suffer these insults.
Grand documentaries and parades and marching bands ten years from now mean nothing to me when I've got about a dozen cans of beans left in the cellar and a whole two months's worth of wood in the yard.
First horse, then cart. Okay?
To-do list for the mentally challenged:
- Hop out of the woods like a scared little rabbit and leave flowers on doorstep.
- Twenty bucks in a tin can at the foot of the hill so that I can buy provisions for the day and maybe not starve to death.
- Come hat in hand to ask that I not launch a cruise missile into the White House.
- Have assclown jurisdiction make it okay that the New York Times run their fantastic write up. (As if that would do me any good since I can't even get the audience I already have to buy their tickets. Getting more shoplifters into my theater means nothing to me.)
- Collect my tens of millions of dollars that I have inside my mind.
- Then, maybe then, I'll concern myself with our splendid documentary.