The Sometimes Serious Writer and His Ass

by Boudreau Freret

The sometimes serious writer has walked this Earth long enough to appreciate that when his ass is unhappy, he is as well.  So the sometimes serious writer strives at all times to be cognizant of the health and well being of his ass.

In his teens, the sometimes serious writer genuinely believed that his ass was gifted with invincibility, and lived his life one day at a time in an apparent effort to test this theory.  This worked well, until it did not, and having barely attained the age of twenty one, the sometimes serious writer lost his ass and with it the will to live.

For reasons outside the sometimes serious writer's control, Providence saw fit to return the sometimes serious writer's ass to him.  But it was no longer his: the sometimes serious writer believed he had forfeit any claim he may once have had to live and walk among the righteous.

So the sometimes serious writer set out to better himself, and the lives of those around him, however he could.

In his late twenties and early thirties, the sometimes serious writer arrived at what he naively thought was his adult-life's destination.  The sometimes serious writer helped people who needed help, and was embarrassed by the amount of money he was being paid to do so, notwithstanding the years of education and the tests and the invasive character and fitness examinations.  But the sometimes serious writer found himself seated at a desk, largely motionless, for many hours of each day.  Many many hours.

The sometimes serious writer's ass took exception to this lifestyle change, was unhappy, and rebelled against the sometimes serious writer, causing him great anguish.

The sometimes serious writer had been genetically gifted with the metabolism of a gerbil, and wore the same jeans from age sixteen until about age thirty three.  And then could not.  So every year, an inch was added to his pants.  Sometimes two.

Until one day the sometimes serious writer saw himself in a mirror, and saw inside himself through the eyes of his child.  And then the sometimes serious writer stopped sitting at the desk.  And stopped making an embarrassing amount of money.  And spent his time with his family.  And watched what he ate and exercised, until he could wear the same size jeans he wore when he was sixteen (without looking like Chris Farley, may he rest in peace).

And the sometimes serious writer realized that his journey contained hundreds of characters too wonderful to be fictitious, and that his life and happiness were built out of the kindness and generosity of others.  He felt that their stories should be told, and began the conceit that he was suited to tell them.

So the sometimes serious writer began to write.  Safe, silly things.  Farce.  Satire.  Building courage, one story at a time, one word at a time, toward the real and emotionally raw stories that filled him, hoping that he could garner the skill along the way to do them justice.

To honor the lives of the people who gave the sometimes serious writer's ass back to him, and taught him to listen to it: because when the sometimes serious writer's ass is unhappy, he is doing something wrong.