On Writer’s Block and Other Nightmares.

Inevitably, this is what happens when a writer does not write for days; it’s called Writer’s Block, and it’s pure evil.

It is the swarthy (Harumph!) and uncomfortable equivalent of a Radio Deejay’s Dead Air.

Or a Porn Star’s Limp Whiskey Dick.

Or a Priest’s Hard-on.

Or a Femme Fatale’s Visit from Monthly Martha.

Or a Serial Killer’s Change of Heart.

Or a Vampire’s New Vegan Diet.

So then I traveled down the jaunty, hopeful, and dusty tour of my old computer’s hard drive to dredge up more - possibly phlegmatic - writing’s of yesteryear…but alas! No dice.

I found that my old writing is as bad as a college kid’s dirty laundry, which stands on its own Wilderness Land’s Two Feet.

Or as bad as that old Slaughtered Salt Lick slobbered on by the Crusty Cows and Hillbilly Horses nearby.

I’ll be back tomorrow. With or without the Nightmares? Who the hell knows.