Irrelevant Cheetah

“I need you to write a blog post for me.”

Once again, that’s how it started.

“Go on,” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously trying to look like a frantic writer in the midst of a creative streak but only succeeding in looking like a jet-lagged emu with dandruff. “I don’t want anybody to think I’ve abandoned this blog, but I have to meet this self-imposed and totally unnecessary deadline of having this novel edited and queried before my birthday.”

See, that’s how it goes around here. Wolf goes into a creative slump, or he gets busy, and guess who gets to fill in for him? That’s right – me. God knows Dexter isn’t going to do it. That boy has no creative writing skills whatsoever. Sure, he’s a wizard with a calculator and a protractor, but give him a free copy of MS Word and a MacBook Air and he still couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag.

“Fine, I’ll do it,” I told him, “but I’m not particularly happy about it. I’m not happy with you about that movie, either.”

“Why not?”

“Anita wasn’t your wumpus-herder ex-girlfriend, she was mine.”

Wolf shrugged. “So? You weren’t going to appear in the film, and I needed a reason to go to Rigel 5.”

“Okay, first of all, she doesn’t live on Rigel 5, she lives in Slodovetskiwazaskatsia. Don’t know where you got that nonsense. And no, I’m not appearing on film. Cameras steal your soul.”

He shook his head. “Fine. I’m sorry. It’s not like anybody watched it, anyway, but I apologize. You can put something about it into your blog post, all right?”

That’s when I walked away, muttering to myself. ‘Twas never like this in the old country.