Our Founding Illegals or No Country for Little Men

(Thepoetryman sits on the back porch, fingers hovering over the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to sweep over him. He is visibly irritated and looks around desperately. Not finding anything in the void of night, save for the distant thunder, he drops the middle finger of his right hand down on the " key.)

“I'm thinking of something to write for this morning's post and my muse is not being much help. She's snickering at the most inopportune times and I am losing my (her) train of thought and beginning to write my own inane, aimless thoughts!”



(TPM asks audibly.)

"Why don't you just go to sleep or away and let me do this post on my own?"


(His muse replies heartily and inaudibly, except to TPM.)

“... which leads us to where we are at this moment- right about here * or there, for those of you who already decided to go elsewhere instead of reading my poor excuse for not being creative with this post.”

(Long silence.)

"Whew! Where's a muse when you need her?"

(Awkward pause.)



"Hello? (Beat.) Ding dong! Anybody out there? (Beat.) Hello?"


"So it's like that is it? You're not going to say anything? (Beat.) Look… I need you, okay?"

(A long and expectant silence.)

"Fine! Disappear! Vanish! Remain mute! Cut out your damned tongue! Move to another writer! See if I give a care!"


“I can write without you, little missy! I can certainly create without you snooping around being all quarrelsome and such! You think I can’t? You think I’m an empty vessel without you? Well, `HA’ back at ya!”

(Dreadful pause.)

“As a matter of fact, if I were you, I’d get used to the idea of my ability to create without your touch! What do you think of that? Huh?”

(A dreadfuller pause.)

“Hear me? Huh? Catching all of this? Skedaddle! Vamoose! Don’t let the door hit you in the aspiration on the way out!”

(Complete and utter silence.)

“What? Still giving me the silent treatment… or did you, um, uh- Did you move out?”

(TPM, unsure if she is really gone, if she actually cut out her tongue, or if she’s just playing possum begins to type like a madman! A man without a muse! Muselessly! Without a lick of inspiration! Uninspiredly! Dejectedly! Monstrously! Impertinently! He types crazily! He seems to be moving without a smidgen of inspiration anywhere in sight when suddenly-)

“Okay! Okay! For Christ’s sake I’m sorry! For my sake I’m sorry! Please! Please come back? I need you like I need air! I will never again doubt you or whatever the hell it is that I did to earn your furious silence!” (Beat.) “Okay?” (Beat.) “Okay?” (Silence.) “Please?” (Beat.) “Pretty please?”

(Long silence.)

"…I suppose I’ll cut and paste a couple of funny political videos as my post then? Yip.... I suppose that’s all I can do since my muse has vanished…? Okay. I’m going to post two videos. Here I go. No words. No inspiration. Nothing but video. Here I go...? I’m posting entertainment...? Here it goes…? (Dead silence.) Fark."



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