You can see it, can’t you?  Jack Black will play me, writing the column.  The movie will focus on his quest for a topic, the search for some soda when he gets thirsty, and his trials and tribulations mailing the column to the editor.

Of course, that won’t make a very good movie, so we’ll need a villain.

And we’ll need some conflict.

So, let’s change things around a bit.  We’ll keep with the main theme, writing a column, but instead of mailing it, I have to hand deliver it to the editor — in China.

And my plane goes down on the way there, and I have to fight the villain, (we’ll call him Roy).

So I’m fighting Roy in the wilds of Africa, or something, and I meet a girl.  No, not a girl, a tribe of girls, all of them bisexual, that way the sex scene is better.

Now that I think about it, delivering a column to a guy in China is pretty thin, even for a movie plot, so instead of a column, it’s an antidote to a virus — a computer virus!

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.  I’m going to China to hand deliver the code, which I only have in my head, to the King of China (or whatever).  Right, and Roy is the head of something, a criminal organization, a church, I don’t know, something evil.

Roy puts a bomb on my plane and it goes down in Africa and I meet the girls, and they make me some kind of Sky God.

And there’s a power jewel.  The tribe has this ruby that grants the one who wears it in a crown, the same crown they gave me as their Sky God, mystical powers.  So I can fly and shoot lasers and all sorts of stuff that will look great once we get the special effects into it.

So I use the ruby, no, the Ruby of Ragoor.  Right, so I use the Ruby of Ragoor to fly to China, but Roy has a diamond that grants him equal, but evil powers.

A fight scene, in fast and then slow motion, with music by the Dust Brothers, ensues.  Roy gets in a few shots, and brags about the virus, giving me the crucial piece of information I needed to complete the antidote (all in my head).

Roy sees his mistake, but it’s too late and I pull some “I am the chosen one, Neo” move and make it to the King of China’s castle just in time.

The King of China also has a daughter, between the age of sixteen and eighteen, who wants to show her gratitude to me for saving the world — personally.

After a night (or two) with the Princess of China, I return to the tribe and give them the gems, as they rightfully belong to them, and I’m the good guy.  A moral for the kids or something.

It wraps up with a joke, something witty, but leaving room for a sequel.

And that’s how I see it, “My Column: The Movie!” staring Jack Black.

So it doesn’t matter that this column sucks, because the movie is going to rule.

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Also, if you’re from my neck of the woods, you’re also preparing yourselves for a six-to-eight month period of what we Michiganders like to refer to as freezing our asses off, but that’s another story…

I’d like to now explain to you the true origin of Halloween.  On the other hand, I’d also like to get to bed at a decent hour tonight, so instead of wasting valuable sleeping time actually researching and learning about this great holiday, I think it would be more beneficial for us all if I just made up a neat story about how Halloween came to be the sugar-addicting dentist’s heaven that it is today.  Don’t tell me that they all don’t secretly fantasize about it every year, either!  My dentist used to give away the most amazing caramel apples, just caked with chocolate and nuts and everything else that it takes to get an eight year-old to eat an apple.  His wife would sit on the porch in one of her fur coats, just laughing like mad as she handed them out…

Anyways, the entire concept of Halloween started many, many years ago by an evil, old witch with three crooked teeth and a bad attitude towards children.  Her name was Gloria.Gloria’s house was a very popular place for the children to congregate after school because it was made out of gingerbread.  The kids would come there to eat candy, play ball, chase each other, eat candy, have water balloon fights, eat candy, and generally enjoy their youth (sometimes while eating candy…), but Gloria always despised the children because they were too loud, they would never go home when they were told and they basically lowered the overall property value of her fine estate.  She knew that something had to be done…

Pretty good so far, eh?  I thought so, too!  Sorry about the interruption, but I’ve found that it always helps to get the audience’s general opinion of your work early on – it makes for a better piece in the end.  Anyways, back to the story…

Gloria devised an evil plan to finally rid herself of all the wretched children that bothered her every day.  She discretely gathered the materials that she would need, then waited until Halloweeen, I mean, a very special night which would go down in history!  Coincidentally, that night came and a full moon just happened to be out.  It made for a great ambiance, if you were lucky enough to be around that evening…

Did I mention that Gloria was a witch?  I thought that it was pretty obvious by now, what with the black hat, cauldron and the fact that she flies around on a broom, but there’s always that one guy you’ve gotta point everything out to…

Gloria looked out her front window and saw the children playing gleefully in her front yard.  She knew that it was time.  Hurrying into the bathroom, Gloria rushed to prepare her costume that was sure to win her all the privacy she could ever want!  After what seemed like hours of carefully applying makeup and such, she quietly tip-toed out to her porch where the kids would meet their match.  When the moment was just right, she flipped on the porch light and revealed her plan to the world…

It just doesn’t get any more exciting than this, does it?  What’s that?  Stop interrupting, you blooming idiot…  Sorry.

The children stood in terror as they gazed upon Gloria (the Witch), who now sat huddled over a large black cauldron in the middle of her porch.  Her hand was extended towards the nearest of the children, waving a king-size Milky Way in the young one’s face.  By the way, did I mention that Gloria was wearing a big red nose, humongous shoes and the goofiest clown costume anyone had ever seen?  She really did look quite ridiculous, but luckily the children bought it!Gloria agreed to give the children all the candy they could eat in one night, as long as they would stay off her property and leave her the hell alone for the other 364 days of the year.  The kids being extremely narrow-minded and ignorant, passed up their opportunity to enjoy her gingerbread house all year round for a single holiday of sugar-induced madness.  That holiday, of course, is what we now know as Easter.

Just kidding, although I do have a similar tale involving an evil bunny who lived in a shoe, if you’ve got a second.  It was a crazy place, I’ll tell ya – he had so many children, he didn’t know what to do!  Ok, maybe another time.  I should really get going anyways!  I’m sure you got the gest of it, and hopefully you’ll walk away with just a little more knowledge about this tradition than before.  Even if you really hate kids, just remember: it’s only one night, then you’relegally allowed to hate them for the rest of the year!  You really can’t afford to pass up an offer like that!

Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to start putting up my Christmas lights…

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Please help me.  I’m a mid-level European royal who secretly left my home country to marry a wealthy American businessman.  That was two months ago.  Since then, we’ve been living in Twichum Holler, Tennessee.  Life isn’t exactly as I’d envisioned it.  I’m pondering whether or not to remain in this marriage.

When I lived in London, my life was an endless whirl of shopping, A-list parties, shopping, a few hours of charity work, shopping, sacking the servants, shopping for mink coats, attending the spa, shopping for jewelry, attending the opera, shopping, bikini waxing, shopping, snubbing the commoners, shopping, and finally, shopping.  I thought since America is so much bigger than England, it would have truly amazing possibilities for shopping, even though Daddy has rescinded my expense account leaving me with only my five-figure per month trust fund income.

Here in Twichum Holler, however, my shopping possibilities include simply Jimmy-Jed’s Pop-N-Shop (sort of a 7-11), Ruthie’s Mode-A-Day Boutique (featuring fashions au courant as of the 1950s), and the flea market every Saturday.  If I drive myself into Knoxville, there’s the Citadel Mall. It’s all right, but Sears definitely is no Harrod’s.

Also, when I lived in London, I had a number of servants to attend me, as well as a chauffeur.  My husband, Ray Earl, seems to expect me to be his servant.  I’ve noticed he gets upset if I don’t prepare a meal periodically, and I’ve yet to master how to employ the edge of the counter top to pop the cap off a beer bottle, although I can proudly say I have learned how to set the points in our 1972 Ford pickup by using a matchbook cover.

I’m slightly suspicious of Ray Earl’s claims of wealth.  It’s true he lies around all day doing nothing, but he does so in such a bourgeois way.  Our cabin is less than grandiose, and he knows nothing at all about how to play polo or golf – nor does he show the slightest interest in it.   I’m pleased he at least enjoys hunting, although possum isn’t as tasty as grouse.

Mainly, I guess I’m just homesick.  Well, that plus the fact Daddy now is threatening to disinherit me.  He says he’s waited long enough for me to come to my senses.  Ray Earl is nice and everything, but I’m not sure he’s worth losing my impeccable manicure over.  Or my title, for that matter.  What do you think?

Sincere regards,

Lady Margaret

of Wentworth-on-Eames

Savannah Says:

My dear Lady, I know just what you mean.  When I had my title selfishly ripped from my bosom by the heartless royal family of Luxembourg [note from Elizabeth: actually, it was Liechtenstein], I thought I’d never recover from the crushing blow, even though I’d only been Princess Savannah for eight days.  How I missed the feel of ermine tickling my swan-like, alabaster neck and the weight of the jewel-encrusted tiara mashing down my expensive hairdo.  But, alas!, it was not to be.  At least I have that pair of priceless 15th century drinking steins, which I smuggled out of the castle by stuffing inside my bra, to console me.

Here in America, we have no royalty, you know – well, not counting the Kennedy family and, of course, Oprah.  Just because your husband has “Earl” in his name does not mean he’s titled.  I’m afraid you may have misunderstood this when he proposed to you.

This might be a good thing, however, because it presents an “out” for you.  I certainly would not surrender my title for the King of Twichum Holler, and neither should you.  Simply call Daddy and tell him you married under false pretences.  He’ll be so happy to have you home, he’ll not only spring for the airfare, he’ll probably treat you to an Italian holiday.  I’m sure Ray Earl will be hard to forget, but a few minutes with a young Neapolitan cabana boy should do the trick.

Good luck, dear!

© 2000-2002 Elizabeth Hanes

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Yeah, I know I’m pipe dreaming (without the pipe).  Isn’t there some type of statistic that reads you cannot have so many bad things happen without a good thing popping up?  Where’s the good thing, dammit?

Personally, on top of our world crisis, I have, as you know, battled pneumonia and am currently getting ready for the winter heating bills, which were horrid last year because of the deadly ice storm we experienced and the weeks upon weeks of sub-zero degree temperatures.  I live in the south.  Don’t ask me why this happened.  On top of this, Christmas is coming up and I haven’t even begun to budget for it plus my daughter will turn thirteen in a couple of months.

Dammit, man, where is justice?

I remember a day when a nice cup of hot chocolate could help me see things in a better light.  This year, the chocolate may need spiking.  I remember a time when a nice drive in the country would have put me in a calm state of mind.  Currently, the gas prices are outrageous.

OK, my energy level is back and I am feeling better than I was.  But I still haven’t recovered my senses of taste, smell and touch.  I walk around feeling numb and everything tastes like chalk.  However, my husband’s gas attacks don’t affect me anymore so there is some small reward for all of this suffering.  Still, he has to tell me when sex is over so I’m definitely running at a loss here.

I just want everything to be normal again.  Is that so wrong?  I want the terrorist thing to go away.  I want bin laden to quit ‘been lording’ over everything.  I want to laugh at our President again because it’s normal to do so!  I want to plan an imaginary trip in my head to anywhere and not have thoughts of dying come to mind.  I want to watch ‘Survivor’ and enjoy it again, instead of getting depressed by the title of the show.  Except for that blood-drinking segment.  YUCK and I’ll watch ‘Friends’ instead, thank you!

Since we’re on the subject, what is the deal with CNN interviewing bin laden?  We have military troops, thousands of them, looking for this man but CNN can land an interview deal with him?  What is THAT all about?

Why can’t I be like my dog?  Every day people are given bad news but my dog wakes up happy every morning.  She jumps on the bed, wags her tail and hopes to get a treat.  OK, so I really don’t want to have to wag my tail to get a treat but you know what I’m talking about.  As a matter of fact, if I waved any part of my cellulite body in the air, I would be hard pressed to gain anything close to a treat.  My dog would howl and my cat would go into one of her catnip freak shows from cruel exposure.  My husband’s response?  “Kim, I think you’re still sick.  You need to get in bed and cover up quickly!”

How do we uncomplicate the questions of the mind?  A lobotomy, perhaps?  Or, should we press the off button on the remote control and just say no?  The latter may work wonders.  Either that or stick with cable channels.

“No, I didn’t see the news last night but I caught a great rerun of ‘Charles In Charge’.”

All this angst and strife may be good for my career, though.  In the words of my publisher, “Good stuff!  The sicker you get, the better you write!”

How’s that for psychiatric irony?

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