May 1 , 2002

Today is the day to remember: rabbit rabbit.

2

George Foreman woke in a sweaty panic, grabbing for the pen that he always kept on his bedside table. He hastilly uncapped it and held it, hand shaking, above the pad. Slowly, he put the tip of the pen on the pad, and a dark spot of ink spread across the yellow page in the darkness. He threw the pen down and flopped dramatically back in his bed.

Nothing. For the last 20 years or so, he had written something incredible, something beautiful, and something amazing every day of his life. Even the work he tossed in the trash was aeons better than anything any student at the best writing school in the nation could hope to aspire to in a lifetime.

And he had had writers block for a week now. And nothing had come to him, not a decent idea, a mediocre idea, or even a bad idea. Nothing had come to him. He worried about when his agent would notice.

But don't you, not even for one second, start to pity George. How is it possible to really pity somebody that prolific? Nobody can be that good for that long without at least a short stumble, even if it's just a week without divine inspiration. Also, his personality was so god-awful that not even the most open-hearted fool, or even the most sympathetic like-minded jerk would really stand him. Trust me, if you knew him, you would extract such joy out of his small misfortune that you wouldn't even pause to feel bad about it.

Of course, George didn't see it that way. He saw it as his God-given right to be the best writer in the universe. Not because he had had a bad past, or because it was the only way he could relate to people, or because it was his only redeeming quality. No, he saw it was a right and a physical normality to write the way he did, just the way we take breathing and the gag reflex for granted. He was simply amazed and mystified at his temporary lack of output.

George Foreman fell back asleep quickly and noisily. The next morning he deliberately fixed himself some coffee and 5 pieces of bread with a hole in it (not exactly helping his rotund figure) and read the newspapers, snorting often at the disgraceful writing and ridiculous opinions. Aftewards he sat and stared at his hands, fuming that he still couldn't think of an idea and yet all those morons at the New York Times could.

Finally, George Foreman pulled out his thin address book.

"I have no ideas" he muttered spitefully into the phone.

"Really?" asked the voice, trying not to sound too gleeful.

"Try not to sound so gleeful," George said.

It was Henry Geflen with whom George was speaking. Henry was the closest thing to a friend or a mentor George had. They met as professor and student, actually. Sophomore year of college, and George was snoring his way through another semester, leaving students and professors agape in his wake. However, most teachers tried to tone down George's hubris, assumed that his writing was just a fluke. Some of them were earnest, some of them were just jealous.

Professor Geflen, George's 200-Level Contemporary American Literaute Professor (being a good writer does not exempt you from taking classes), was not talented or animated enough to earn George's respect. However, he was the closest to empathizing with George.

"Listen," he said, taking George aside. "Don't let anybody try to be your friend or get you to do something for them just because they're smoother or better looking than you. You're talented enough to be just the kind of asshole you want to be. And that's pretty amazing."

The closest thing he had found to a kindred spirit, George kept in touch with Professor Geflen. It was an odd companionship, however, as George's respect for Geflen was close to nil and Geflen's envy and dislike for George was no secret.

But back to our story.

"So how long have you not had anything?" asked Geflen.

"A week."

"Ahh," Geflen dismissed nasally, "That's nothing."

George sniffed. "This is me. I don't get writer's block."

"Well I don't have any ideas for you."

"I wasn't asking for your ideas."

"Is that all, George?"

"Why, you have someplace to go?" George was derisive. He knew that the only reason he had more friends and acquaintances than Geflen was because of his money and fame. Otherwise, he knew that Geflen was just as unpopular as he was.

"Yes, I do."

"Where?"

"I just do. I don't have to explain my life to you."

"Fine."

"Good luck, George. I'll talk to you later."

"Fine."

George hung up the phone and tried to figure out what to do with his day.

Geflen hung up the phone, full of ideas.