Forsaken Identity

It all turned out to be a misunderstanding. Ted wasn't the thief, after all. Each of the townspeople came by to shake his hand and wish him well. Fred, his upstairs neighbour, was the first. He shook Ted's hand and said, 'I hope there's no hard feelings, Ted. And I hope we can be friends.' 'Of course. Thanks.' ' - even though I told everyone that you get up in the middle of the night and draw pictures on your wall with your own excrement.' Allen, Ted's former work mate, stopped in. He said, 'I'm sorry, Ted. And I like you a lot.' 'Thanks, Allen.' '- even though I warned my sister to keep her daughter away from you.' And then the girl down the hall knocked on his door. She brought cookies and said, 'I think you're a good guy now Ted.' 'Thank you!' '- even though you're old.'
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© 2011. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Nice Try

Last night, before I went to bed, in order to escape the memory of how I got so severely plagiarized, I picked up a very interesting book, Eugene Marais, The Soul of the Ape. In the introduction I read, '...In 1926, the year after he had published his definitive article on his original research and conclusions about the white ant, a world-famous author took half Marais's life-work and published it as his own. This plagiarizing may well have been a major factor in Marais's final collapse. Plagued for many years by ill health and an addiction to morphine, he took his own life in March 1936.'
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© 2011. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Spitting Image

I'm going to try to hook up with a female vocalist soon, so I can add a little more vocal variety to my repertoire, and properly express my feminine side in song. You know a good tip for under eye care? Whale spit. But it's expensive. Fifty dollars for a little eyedroppers worth.
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© 2011. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Waiting for Justice

I heard a story this morning about a man who is suing Doctor Who over a character he claims to have created thirty years ago, in his youth. It reminded of a certain someone who owes me money. I've been waiting for thirty-six years now. Are you listening, Christine? Christine MacNichol? I want my milk money. I want it with interest. You said you'd pay me back when you collected from your paper route. How long does it fucking take? Let me tell you, I could go for a nice, cool glass of milk right now.
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© 2011. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Bread Winner

When the Lord was in the desert, doing without food for weeks on end, the devil tried to get him to turn the stones into bread by offering him a good paying job. Jesus answered, 'It is written that man should not live by bread alone but by every word of God.'
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Late Bloomer

Today is Saint Patrick's day. Traditionally, Irish mums get their seventeenth born child drunk on this day. If they've spent all their booze money on lottery tickets, they just use their breast milk, which tastes a lot like Guinness. (I still remember its flavour from my fourteenth birthday.) My mom was Ottawa Valley Irish, which is slightly different from real Irish. For instance, we don't have leprechauns in the Ottawa Valley, just garden gnomes. And when we get angry, we don't throw potatoes at our enemies; we throw hardened cow pies. Everything else is pretty much the same, except maybe the accent.
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Love Them to Death

'Each of us kills the thing we love...' Oscar Wilde I am reminded of this pet bunny rabbit that was given to a one-year-old. It died within a week of receiving the child's constant, mauling affections. John Lennon's killer was a fan. He asked for John's autograph an hour before he killed John. And how about that Jesus?
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Shaky Argument

Someone once told me that quakes and tsunamis were behind the Japanese drive for expansion back in the 30's and 40's. I guess Hawaii is far enough from those tectonic plates. That's right, when countries expand, it's out of necessity. For instance, how can we have a cross-continent railroad here in North America unless we take possession of all the land from coast to coast? And after that, how we can we have a vacation spot in the Samoan Islands?
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© 2011. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Shame Old Story

It's understandable that we are inclined towards sinfullness. Only God knows why good is reinforced by feelings of shame, guilt, and pity, and by deprivation through self-sacrifice, all unpleasant, while evil tends to be supported by euphoria, excessive abundance, and no-strings-attached sex. Furthermore, good seems boring, while evil appears exciting. As soon as Moses went into the mountains, his people strayed into idol worship and all-out debauchery. Then, when he returned, he was so mad that he threw his tablets at them - the first stoning. And one of the tablets landed on Ezekiel's foot and broke his big toe, causing him to invent the ancient wheelchair - but that's another scripture. The people at once felt ashamed. They melted their golden calf and used the gold properly, as coins in a bank vault. I think God forgives us for succumbing to our desires because he made them so seductive. Through his eyes people may even appear cute on a Friday or Saturday night, getting all drunk and disorderly and waking me up in my room. How like naughty children we must appear to him at such times, too innocent to know the perils of our misbehaviour, just wanting to have fun. There's a place in the gospels where Jesus refers to his people as 'those lost sheep', his love for them implicit. The important thing is that we, upon reflection, feel bad about our sins. It helps us to avoid repeating them. Strange, isn't it? Feeling good makes us bad, while feeling bad makes us good. (Feeling nothing makes us serial killers.)
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© 2007, 2011. Scripts by David Skerkowski. All rights reserved.

Trouble Spot

Sometimes women remind me of this cute little kitten that my grandma had. Spot. As a youngster I would visit her and pet her and she would purr. So soft and sweet. Then one day a dog passed in front of the house and growled at Spot just as I was stroking the front of her neck with my index finger. She took a swipe at my hand and I felt a flash of pain. In horror I saw that she had slit open my palm down the middle, from top to bottom.
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What A Wonderful Camp

A group of schoolgirls went by my place singing What A Wonderful World earlier. I bet the songwriter was on heroin when he wrote it. It reminded me of a 70's miniseries, Holocaust: The Family Weiss. A Jewish artist in a concentration camp is ordered to draw and paint happy pictures of the Nazi state. The story of Kurt Gerron comes to mind, and, in fact, the camp was Theresienstadt. He hid his drawings of his true feelings but they were found and turned over to authorities. They beat him severely and smashed his hands. Then they sent him to Auschwitz.
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