I Thought I Had a Friend. Nope.

I was speaking to my genius the other day. (I often have conversations with my own genius.)

"Genius," I said, "I summon thee."

My genius awoke and said, "Yes, my master?"

"Genius," I said, "let's talk some trash. You have served me well over the years, provided me with deep insights, and even acclaim from Boy's Life for my memorable article 'The Kindly Bear of Willow Creek.' But, genius, it has come to my attention through watching popular programs such as Access Hollywood that if I were to attract a certain celebrity status currently beyond my grasp, attractive young females would, in fact, begin to pursue me with ardor. Ergo, genius, from now on you must work double time to secure for me this goal. No more breaks, no more flights of fancy into the realms of opera and Sudoku. From this day forward, you shall concentrate solely on getting my mug onto the cover of Entertainment Weekly. What say you, genius? Eh?"

And my genius thought for a moment, and responded thusly: "You pathetic hack. My purpose is to provide you with a grasp of life's mysteries and general artistic brilliance, not to become some sort of glorified escort service. Jesus!"

I cleared my throat and said: "Genius, I gave birth to you. I developed you. You shall do as I say. Now, by the time I get up tomorrow, I expect some script ideas that will absolutely bowl over some suits at Warner Brothers."

And my genius said: "Listen, you pickle-looking geekoid, if it weren't for me, you'd still be coming up with ideas like 'make a tape of funny Darth Vader noises' and 'how about a story about pirates living inside the earth's core'. I answer to the highest forces of creativity and divine inspiration. You want some girl action, you pay for it like everyone else."

And I replied, "Genius, I got two words for ya: Scarlett Johansson."

And my genius said, "Okay, I see what you're saying."

"Genius," I ventured, "if you can procure for me the fame necessary to meet and woo such comely lasses, I shall allow you to stretch out on weekends to ponder the ancient conundrums of the cosmos, to question our social fabric, to challenge the very philosophical foundations of life itself. Then on Monday it's back to fame and chicks."

With that, my genius agreed, and was sated.

That was two and a half years ago.

The best thing my genius has come up with in all that time is a children's book about a piece of bacon looking for its mother.

My genius is retarded.