I've got nothing this week. First time in nearly five years of column writing. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I'm sitting at my desk right now with a blank screen in front of me, that little black cursor blinking back annoyingly. Oh, I can't stand it! It's mocking me!
This pencil here is better than you, Cursor. It doesn't mock me. It's loyal and it does nothing but comfort me during stressful times like these. You, Cursor, you are a menace. You blink like you're taunting me: THINK?#34;THINK?#34;THINK!
I'm trying, you aggravating ingrate!
Ah-hah! I could write about the Gay Games arriving in Chicago this time next year. But how do I feel about the Gay Games arriving in Chicago this time next year? Better yet, what do I know about the Gay Games, aside from the fact that it's a set of athletic events that gay people compete in?#34;at least that's what I assume it is. The only thing I suppose I would write about is the mere fact that there is such a thing called the Gay Games, and how do you prove you're a qualified candidate for such games?
I don't know; I'm really not in the mood to give my opinion on whether or not there should be Gay Games or if it's even funny that they are referred to as Gay Games. It's immature and amateurish. And that darn cursor is zeroing in on me again!
Hey, Mayor Richard Daley said he's going to lobby to get the 2016 Olympics in Chicago. There might be something there. I could make fun of the mayor, or the fact that by 2016 Chicago will be owned and operated by a group of investors from the Hired Truck scandal.
No, that's tedious and most people will think the Hired Truck scandal is in reference to skyrocketing U-haul rental fees.
I'm leaving you for awhile, Cursor, surfing the net, in search of something provocative, profound. I stumble upon Lance Armstrong winning his seventh straight Tour de France. I could write about such a feat, if only I could stop cringing from the imaginable pain I think I would feel sitting on such a narrow bike seat for hours at a time. I feel compelled to adjust myself in my chair.
What's wrong with me?
Football. Football season is coming. The Bears, I could discuss the Bears' chances. I could talk about Rex Grossman and whether he will have a breakout year or not. Or I could talk about draftee Cedric Benson. I could, but I won't. I'm busy reading about Brian Urlacher's paternity suit. Court records indicate he impregnated a former stripper and is now seeking custody of the child. Why am I more interested in the sleazy stuff? That's not what this column is about. It's not a gossip column (Ryne Sandberg may have eaten at Philander's last night. Sources say he ordered the lobster bisque.)
Cursor, where did you come from? I told you to go away!
I know! I'll write about the vacation I'm taking with the wife, the kids, and the in-laws this week. Five days in the Upper Peninsula on a lake with a cabin and a small row boat. The sporting angle will be fishing, for I will do a lot of fishing in that row boat.
Oh, who am I kidding? What I'll be doing is a lot of drinking in that row boat, alone.
The Cubs aren't entirely out of the playoff race. I could discuss their chances for a surprise run. I could fill readers in on how a bunch of new recruits like Rich Hill, Roberto Novoa, Ronny Cedeno, and Matt Murton could turn the Cubs around.
Cursor says, "BUT?#34;THEN?#34;YOU?#34;WOULD?#34;BE?#34;LYING!"
Then what am I supposed to do, write a column about nothing? Either that or how a grown man has furious conversations with a computer screen cursor.