Today is the day to pluck off that extra special piece of lint.

What would Zulkey.com be without a major gaffe here and there? It would appear that I have lost the first installment of this serial story, appropriately titled "1." If you have seen it, please tell it to come home to me, and I will fix it its favorite dinner. In the meantime, it will remain a mystery until I have the chance to re-write it. Many apologies for my stupidity. I'll try to get it back up this week. I know you're just crying with wrath.

3

Now George Foreman was frustrated and suspicious. Frustrated because he still hadn't come up with anything to write about, and suspicious because his conversation with Geflen had been so unusual.

Usually when he spoke to Geflen, George hung up the phone full of well-deserved hubris, thinking about his superiority over the poor sap who struggled so hard to teach what came so easily to George. In fact, George usually felt this way after conversing with anybody.

However, this time, George quashed a seed of fear and paranoia. What gave Geflen the right to end the conversation first? George was the rich, famous and talented one, while Geflen was the pitiful struggling straggler, eager to maintain ties to his star student. This time, however, Geflen hung up quickly on George, perhaps the first time ever that George even came close to needing somebody to talk to.

George never gave anything away, not a hint of hope, personality, advice or charity, and yet this time he felt that Geflen, in some way he couldn't articulate, had gotten the best of him. He didn't know how and he couldn't prove it. George felt exhausted, even though it was only mid-morning and he hadn't done anything except eat, read the newspaper and talk to Geflen.

He looked towards his office uncertainly.

Maybe I should sit down and just try to write something. Maybe I should try a writing exercise. Maybe I should think about what I've been doing lately and try to fix it. Maybe I should go for a walk with a pad and a pencil and see what occurs to me...

George shooks his head furiously. What nonsense. He did not work for his writing, his writing worked for him, came to him. If he actually had to put forth effort in the writing, it simply wasn't worth it. And he'd rather be shot than be caught walking around (walking! With all the cars he could afford) with a notebook like an idiot reporter.

The phone rang, and for once, George didn't even at least pretend to be annoyed.

"Hello?"

"Hi George, it's Meredith." George's older schoolteacher sister, the one who openly cursed him to the press but told him that it was 'nothing personal.'

"Yeah, hi."

"I'm just calling to tell you that it's Mother's Day this Sunday, so don't forget to call ours."

George grunted and scribbled a note to have his assistant send his mother some flowers.

"Anything else?"

"No, George, that's all." George could envision his sister rolling her eyes and making the "What a prick" handmotion to her husband Bob.

"Okay."

"Actually..."

"Actually what?"

"There is one thing. I don't even know why I'm telling you this, but..."

"Yes?" George tried his best to sound impatient.

"I've started writing a novel."

George almost dropped the phone. He was infuriated. Writing was his job, and he would be damned of his sister would ride his coattails. Undoubtedly, that's what she was figuring. "New novel by the sister of George Foreman!" splashed across the vulgar jacket.

He checked himself. It would go nowhere. Meredith couldn't write herself out of an unzipped sleeping bag.

"Well Mer," he said smugly, "I certainly wish you the best. I know you haven't had the best luck with writing and you know, it is a very tough endeavor. Maybe I can give you some hints if you need them."

"Oh no," Meredith said airily. "I've already written ten chapters and a publisher friend of mine says the idea is very promising."

George bit his tongue so hard it bled.

"When did you decide to try to write a novel?"

"I don't know," Meredith said, a little maliciously. "It just came to me. Oops, Janie just woke up from her nap. Talk to you later, George. Don't forget about Mother's Day."

And with that, she clicked off. Yet again, George was left holding the un-proverbial phone. The phone which he threw through the un-opened kitchen window.