A Week of Writer's Block (Working Title)

Sat down to write a new humor piece for the web site and came up empty. Absolutely nothing is funny to me. Things like terrorism and the decline of Western civilization just aren't the giggle-getters they used to be. Need to do something to get the creative juices flowing...

Today I treid writting drunk.. Thoght maybe it will hlep. Hey it worked for Tenesseee Willams and William Falkner right? I am so wasted. Ijksssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

I had finally hit upon an idea and started writing when I was interrupted by someone knocking on my front door. It was Angelina Jolie.

"Ryan, I need you to have sex with me," she said. "Brad is off shooting a movie in Milan and I've gone two whole weeks without being pregnant."

"Alright," I sighed. "But this is the last time. I think Brad is starting to get wise."

We looked at each other for a brief moment and then burst into laughter.

Seventy-three seconds later we finished having sex. Angelina got dressed and left, and I returned to my writing. Unfortunately I had now lost interest in the topic I was writing about ("10 Romantic Things to Say to Your Lover After Sex") so I gave up.

I searched the internet for hours for a news story that I could exploit for humor when I was interrupted by a phone call from Senator John Edwards.

"Ryan, I don't know what to do. This National Inquirer story is biting my ass. Do you think I should come clean about my affair with Rielle Hunter?"

"Sure, whatever," I said. "Look, I can't talk now. I'm trying to come up with something interesting to write about." I hung up.

What to write, what to write...

This morning I was so consumed with brainstorming ideas that I absent-mindedly stuck a shrimp fork into an electrical outlet and killed myself. Soon afterward I arrived in Heaven and met with God.

"Hello Ryan," said God. "What are you doing here?"

"Hoo boy, this is embarrassing. I was struggling with writer's block and I appear to have accidentally killed myself."

"Ah, yes," said God. "That's how Hemingway bought it. You know, Ryan, I think you're just trying too hard. All you need to do is look to your everyday life for material. Find something interesting and write about it. Surely there must be something interesting that has happened to you this week..."

"Hmm... no, not really," I said. "Just the usual boring routine."

God shook His head. "Nonsense. I know, why don't you write about--" and suddenly I was pulled back through a long tunnel and I awoke in a hospital emergency room.

"He's alive! It's a miracle!" yelled the doctors. "Ryan, we've brought you back. You were dead for 27 minutes!"

Great, I thought. And you couldn't wait another two fucking minutes before bringing me back? Now I'll never know what God's suggestion was.

Writing sucks.