Hertfordshire, Near Lynwood Manor, 1810

The only thing worse than losing a bet, was losing a bet to your younger brother.  Fifteen-year-old Arthur Kellington pondered the indignities of the situation as he trudged home from his errand in the village.  Though the incident had occurred three days earlier, the embarrassment lingered on.  To be turned down for a kiss was bad enough.  But to have his brother witness the debacle from a nearby tree had been outside of enough.  That Hal had laughed so hard he’d fallen from his branch was some consolation, but not enough to make up for the humiliating experience of having the comeliest serving girl at the Boar’s Bristle tell Arthur she thought he was a good lad and would make a fine man some day, but she was saving her kisses for the smithy’s son.

A lad!  She’d spoken to him as if he were a mere boy, instead of a man.  He could’ve told her he was already taller than his classmates at Eton.  He even thought he’d be taller than his eldest brother Liam one day.  More importantly, he didn’t feel like a lad.  And when it came to women, he certainly didn’t have the disinterest of a younger boy.  He’d admired the serving girl for months.  She was two years his senior and had a smile for everyone, accompanied by curves that would interest even someone as old as Lynwood’s steward, who had just passed his fortieth birthday.  Of course, in thinking back upon the matter, Arthur realized it was possible he might have misinterpreted her general friendliness for a specific interest in him that didn’t exist.  Whatever had possessed him to take Hal’s bet?

Part of the reason could lie in the general restlessness that came from being the middle sibling in a family of five.  It was never easy to carve out a role for yourself with so many brothers.  It was harder still when your eldest brother was a duke.  It wasn’t that he envied Liam the title.  Far from it.  Liam had taken on their late father’s ducal responsibilities a year ago at the age of nineteen and his life would never completely be his own ever again.   And since their mother had died alongside their father in the carriage accident, Liam had also taken on the task of raising his brothers and sister.  While their maternal aunt Prue and her companion Mariah helped wherever they could, Liam still faced much of the burden alone.

As much as Arthur loved his brother, he missed his parents dearly.  Sometimes he thought he’d never feel whole again.

In the meantime, he’d just have to be more judicious in his wagers.  He chafed at the serving girl’s dismissal and counted the days until he’d be back at school.  In a few years – that would no doubt drag interminably – he could leave on his Grand Tour.  He only hoped the continent would be at peace by then, but the prospects for that didn’t look good.  Perhaps he’d go to America or the Amazon or even the Orient.

It seemed his brothers and sister already had their futures planned.  Liam, Duke of Lynwood, had an infinite number of responsibilities that went along with the title.  Of course, there were also quite a few perks.  The serving girl probably wouldn’t have turned him down for a kiss.

Ned was seventeen and had stated his desire to go off to war.  He was eagerly awaiting the day when Liam would let him buy a commission.  Arthur would miss Ned terribly when he left.  He wouldn’t permit himself to think of what could happen to him on the war-torn continent.  The family couldn’t cope with any more tragedy.

Thirteen-year-old Hal’s thoughts for the future didn’t extend much beyond what practical joke he could play next.  But the brother who kept everyone laughing seemed to have had the hardest time coping with their parents’ deaths.  For weeks after the accident, he’d been unable to leave his rooms and even a year later was unable to talk about it.

Lizzie, the baby of the family at nine years of age, wanted to change the world.  She was forever telling Liam to let the servants work fewer hours.  Their butler Heskiss nearly had apoplexy when the girl suggested he take two weeks of holiday at Christmas.  The poor bewildered man had gone to Liam asking what he’d done wrong to warrant exile from the family.

Arthur wanted to travel, to go off on his quest.  In a family named for four kings and one queen of England, he felt a connection to the legendary ruler who’d commanded the Knights of the Round Table, even if it was mostly made up.   But how was Arthur going to achieve great things when he couldn’t even get a kiss from a serving girl?

It didn’t help his mood that he was now on his way back from the village with the treacle tarts he owed Hal for losing the bet.  It had been three days and Hal has been merciless in his teasing.  It mattered little that Cook could prepare tarts in the kitchen.  It was part of the bet that Arthur walk to the village every day for a week to get them, then personally serve them to Hal, who was currently back at the manor nursing a badly bruised arm caused by the fall from the tree.  Arthur planned on nudging the arm none too gently when he served today’s tarts.

It was then that he heard it.  At first he thought it was a bird, perhaps the shriek of a falcon.  It came from the woods on the other side of the meadow he was walking past.  Then the cry came again and it sounded less like a falcon and more like a person.  Arthur began walking toward the sound, then broke into a run when he heard it a third time.  As the cry came again, Arthur paused long enough to pick up a large stick then ran as fast as he could.

The noise brought him to a clearing in the woods.  At least half a dozen lads from the village were circled around a small woman who looked to be in her late ‘30s.  She had black hair which was unbound and hung in curls to her waist.  She appeared to be a Gypsy from her dress.   One of the sleeves on her white blouse was torn and the hem of her red skirt was hanging down, as if someone had ripped it.  She was trapped by the band of lads, all of whom were much larger than she and who were cheering each other on as they lunged at her.  She darted back and forth to avoid them, keeping a wary eye on her captors.  She slapped and kicked at them when they got too close.  Arthur could tell she was terrified, as much as she tried to hide it.

She was the bravest person he had ever seen.

“What’s going on?” he demanded as he reached the clearing and glared at the lads surrounding her.   They were sons of the local gentry.  He knew all of them, having spent his summers at Lynwood Manor.  Most were older than he by a few years.  Many were also bullies like Miles, the vicar’s son, who just the previous week had tortured a stray dog.    The dog was now recovering in the Lynwood stables, after being saved by Lizzie.  Miles was still sporting the blacked eye Ned had given him.

“Go to the devil Kellington,” sneered Miles.  “No one wants you here.”

“Right,” said Morris, the squire’s son who’d yet to have an original thought.  “No one wants you here.”  At that, the other lads joined in, telling Arthur to bugger off and other colorful terms.

Miles continued.  “We’re up for a bit of slap and tickle with this Gypsy slut.”  He tried to make a grab for the woman, but she stepped out of the way and slapped at his hands to the amusement of the other boys.  Which made Miles turn his anger on Arthur.  “I don’t see Ned here to fight your battles.  Or your little sister.”  This made the lads laugh even more, which emboldened Miles.  “You better take yourself off before we have a mind to come after you.”

Arthur eyed the other lads, most of whom outweighed him by two or three stone.  “Let the woman go,” he said, wishing he had one of his brothers to back him up.  He didn’t relish the beating that was sure to come.  “Or answer to me.”

“Let the woman go!” parroted the squire’s son, laughing at the absurdity of the request.

Miles took a menacing step closer to Arthur.  “Who do you think you are to give orders to us?  Just because your brother’s a duke, don’t mean we have to listen to you.  And it’s not like you can run home to daddy.”

That made the other lads laugh even harder.  But Arthur didn’t hear them.  He was aware only of the rage that flooded him.   Not just because of Miles’s taunts.  But because of the anger, fear and frustration he’d felt since the accident.

Without thinking, Arthur swung the stick around and hit the side of Miles’s jaw with a satisfying crack.  He then threw the stick to the Gypsy woman, who used it to fight off the two boys closest to her.

The other three attacked Arthur, cheered on by Miles, who was holding his jaw from a safe distance away.  Arthur gave a good accounting of himself, but soon fell to his knees from the kicks and blows.  He hurt like the dickens, but there was more at stake than simply his own hide.  He had to get up because he knew the woman would be getting the worst of it.  He had to protect her.

He took another blow to the head, but retaliated with a fist to Morris’s groin.  Not the most gentlemanly of moves, but fully warranted under the circumstances.  Apparently, it was quite a blow, because not only did the miscreant limp off, but the other lads ran away as well with Miles leading the way.  As Arthur shook his head to clear his vision, he looked for the woman, afraid of what he’d see.  She was there, still holding the stick, seemingly unharmed.  She was looking above him, toward the woods at his back.  Arthur turned and saw the real reason the boys had run away.

The woods were filled with Gypsy men, Romany, holding any number of knives and weapons.  One of the men, a little older than Arthur, approached the woman, obviously concerned for her well-being.  They exchanged a few words in a foreign language, then the young man approached Arthur.  He helped him to his feet then said in accented English.  “You fight well for a gadji.”

Arthur nodded, unsure if that was a compliment.  “Is the lady….”  He turned to the Gypsy woman.  “Are you all right, ma’am?”

She studied him for a moment, before smiling briefly.  “Come back to the camp.  We will tend to your wounds.”

“My wounds?”  It took a moment for Arthur to realize his hair was matted with blood.   Then the second most embarrassing moment of the week occurred as his world faded to black.

*                    *                    *

            Arthur woke to find himself lying on a palette in a covered wagon.  An entire home seemed to exist within the small conveyance, which was made entirely of wood except for a tarp at the door.  A bedroll was tucked away under a bench.  Several chests were lined up against the wall opposite him and a jar of colorful glass beads lay atop one of them.  Arthur tried to sit up, but lay back when hit by a wave of dizziness.

“Be careful, Lord Arthur,” said the woman from the woods, who was sitting on a low chair in the corner of the wagon.  She’d changed into a new dress and tucked her hair beneath a scarf.  “You fainted from the sight of blood.”  From the look of chagrin on the boy’s face, she quickly added, “A customary reaction, I assure you.”

“How do you know who I am?” he asked, as he gingerly felt the bandage on his head.

“I know many things,” she said, as she gave him a small goblet of wine.  “But it is no secret who you are.  We have travelled through these parts many times before.  Your father used to give us permission to camp on his lands.  Your brother did the same when we came here two days ago.  It is a shame we must leave so soon.  Drink the wine.  You’ll feel much better.”

As Arthur sipped the wine, he looked at the woman.  She was older than he’d first thought.  There were creases at the corners of her eyes, as well as a few light lines near her mouth.  Her eyes were the darkest brown, almost black.  And there was something almost mystical when he looked into them.

“What is your name?”  he asked.

“Sofia,” she gave him that faint smile again, then turned away.  “I owe you a great debt.  You saved me.”

“You saved yourself.  And your friends certainly did more than I.”

“I think not,” she said as she reached for the jaw of beads.  “If you had not appeared when you did, the outcome might have been much different.  For everyone.  I am in debt to you.  It must be paid.”

Arthur took another sip of wine.  “I assure you that I don’t need any type of reward.  Anyone would’ve done the same.  And probably not fainted at the end of it.”

“Nevertheless, I must give you something as I have no desire to feel obligated to someone I may never see again.  We are preparing to move on because those delightful boys from your village may be back in greater number.  We have no wish to be here when they do.”  She studied him for a moment, her dark eyes probing his.  “I will tell your fortune.”

Arthur’s eyes grew bleak.  “I’m not sure I want to know what’s going to happen.  Not if it’s bad.  It’s….it’s been a bad year for my family.”

Sofia considered that for a moment.  “Arthur, no life can proceed without difficulty.  Some events are tragic.  Others are merely unpleasant.  And sometimes, when we are very lucky, challenges lead us to great happiness.  You cannot live a life devoid of difficulty.  But you can prepare yourself to face what may come.  Wouldn’t knowing be better than not?”

Arthur wasn’t sure that was true at all.  But in the end, he nodded.

Sofia placed a handful of beads on a table, then reached for a deck of cards that had colorful figures painted on them.  Arthur watched her long fingers shuffle the cards over and over again.  Then she laid them out on the table.

“What would you like to know?” she asked.

Arthur wasn’t quite sure what to say.  He rather wanted to know why the tavern maid hadn’t kissed him, but was too embarrassed to ask.  “My family,” he said at last.  “What’s going to happen to my family?”

Sofia played with the deck some more, all the while keeping her eye on him.  Finally, she began turning over cards and studying them.  “One of your brothers…he will travel.”

That piqued Arthur’s interest.  “Perhaps you’re speaking about me?”

Sofia shook her head as she studied the cards.  “No.  Not you.  It is one of your brothers.  He goes over the water.  He’s in danger.  But it leads him to his soul mate.”

Arthur snorted.  “There’s no such thing.”

She met his eyes.  “You’re very wrong, Arthur.  Very wrong indeed.  Your brother will tell you so, but not for several years.”  She shuffled the cards again, then laid them out and turned them over.  “Your sister.  Your sister….she also finds her soul mate.  She is a mother and is safely delivered of six children, all of whom prosper.  And then she…speaks before…she speaks before your English Parliament.”

“Impossible!” said Arthur.

“Nothing is impossible,” Sofia said as she laid out the cards again.  “You have another brother…he tells people not to drink spirits.”

“Must be Lynwood,” said Arthur.  “He’s always telling Ned and me to stay away from his brandy.”

“No, I do not think it is his grace.  I believe it is your youngest brother.  He tells people to stay away from drink and gaming.  And there is a woman involved.”

“I’m sure there will be many women involved, but I cannot believe the rest of Hal.  Do you see anything for Liam?”

Sofia studied the cards.  “The course of true love will not run smoothly.”

“When does it ever?” asked Arthur, getting ready to ask about the tavern girl.

“And now for you,” said Sofia as she lay out the cards.  “You will explore the world, but not for many years.”   She studied the cards intently, then her expression blanked.  Something stilled in Arthur at the sight of it.

“But what happens in the meantime?” he asked.

“That is all the cards told me,” she said as she gathered up the cards and stones, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“There is more, isn’t there?” said Arthur.  He put his hand on her arm.  “Please tell me.”

She debated what to tell him, weighing her words carefully.  “The cards only tell what is likely to happen.  They’ve been wrong before.  You doubted what I said about your sister and brothers.”

He had, but Arthur wanted to know what she wasn’t telling him.  He needed to know.  “What do you see in the cards?  Please, Sofia, you must tell me.”

Sofia looked at him, the weariness of the events of the day in her eyes.  “I see the woman you love being shot by a man and you being unable to get to her in time.”

There was a moment of silence.  Arthur could hardly breathe.  Of course there was nothing to this, just card tricks by a woman who thought she was doing him a kindness.  But just the mere thought of more loss paralyzed him.  He couldn’t face it.  He’d never fall in love; he’d never risk it.

“Remember, Arthur,” said Sofia softly.  “No life is without difficulty.  But do not be afraid to live.”

At that moment, the flap to the wagon’s door was thrown open.  The Romany man who’d first spoken to Sofia looked in on them.

“I’m Michun,” he said to Arthur’s unspoken question.  “Lord Arthur, your family has come to retrieve you.  I will take you to them.”

Michun led Arthur through the camp, which was now in the process of packing up to depart.  Every member of the tribe from the eldest man to the youngest child had a task to complete to facilitate a smooth, quick departure.  All eyes were on Arthur as he passed the wagons where people lived, as well as the stalls of wares the Romany sold in villages, including one that featured intricate jewelry boxes and small chests, which Arthur paused to inspect.  He needed a distraction before he faced his family.  He’d suddenly become quite embarrassed by all the attention focused on him, not to mention the worry he must’ve caused his family.

“We have some of the best artisans in the Rom community,” said Michun proudly.  “If you see something you like, take it.  We cannot thank you enough for what you did for Sofia.”  Then he added softly.  “I personally cannot thank you enough.  She is my mother.”

Arthur looked at the man and noted the similarity to Sofia.  He didn’t know what quirk of fate had made him walk by the field at just the right moment, but he was immeasurably glad he had.

“Arthur!”

Arthur turned to see Hal grinning at him.  He was standing with a solemn Liam, Ned and Lizzie.

“Is it true you fainted?”  Hal couldn’t believe his great good luck.

“Your brother came to my assistance,” said Sofia, as she joined them and made her curtsey to Lynwood.  “He is a very brave man.”

“Arthur,” said Liam, after introductions were made, “how badly are you injured?”

“His head certainly can’t hurt as much as my arm,” said Hal.  “After all, his head is much harder.”

“Might I remind you, Henry,” said Liam, “that your arm wouldn’t hurt if you hadn’t climbed that tree to spy on your brother.”

“Well someone had to make sure he told the truth about the wager.”

“What wager?” asked Lizzie.

Liam shot a quelling look at Hal, who wisely refrained from answering.

Ned dragged his eyes away from a beautiful young woman whose décolletage had also drawn Liam’s interested gaze.  “Are you feeling all the thing, Arthur?”

“I’m fine,” said Arthur.  “Thanks to Sofia and Michun.”

“What happened?” asked Liam.

Arthur glanced at a curious Lizzie, then back at his brother.  “Some of the boys from the village – Miles and Morris and a few others – were, uh, harassing Sofia.  We were able to scare them off, although it was mostly the men from the tribe.”

“I should’ve blacked both of Miles’s eyes when I had the chance,” said Ned.  “Still not too late, I reckon.”

“Thank you for the thought,” said Sofia, “but we hope to depart before too long and with as little attention as possible.”

“I am the magistrate here,” said Liam, asserting himself as Lynwood.  “I can prosecute to the fullest extent of the law.”

“Thank you, your grace,” said Sofia.  “But the law isn’t always an impartial force, regardless of your excellent intentions.”

Liam considered the matter, then nodded.

“Did they hurt you?” Lizzie asked Sofia.  Arthur looked at his sister, who was a skinny little girl in braids, holding a doll that was almost as big as she was.  She’d rarely let go of it since their parents’ death.  And now she was asking about an issue no little girl should ever have to think about.

Sofia smiled at the girl, then smoothed one of her braids.  “Your brother was very brave and took care of me.”

Lizzie looked at Sofia, but made no response.

Michun watched the young duke appraisingly.  “You are much like your father.  Please accept our sincerest sympathy at his passing.”

Liam gave the briefest of nods.  Ned looked off into the horizon.  Hal put his arm around Lizzie, as she leaned into him.  Arthur took little solace in his family’s company.  His thoughts were on the future.

Michun continued.  “The road beckons and it is time for us to go.”

Sofia kissed Arthur’s cheek, then he and his brothers and sister turned to walk back to Lynwood Manor.  Arthur was suddenly anxious to leave the encampment, to go home and try to put his troubling future behind him.  It was best to get his mind off it.  Perhaps a hand of cards when he returned.  That would occupy his thoughts.

Suddenly Lizzie turned and ran back to Sofia.  She held up the doll that meant so much to her.

“Here!” said Lizzie as she thrust the doll into Sofia’s hands.   “I don’t want you to be sad.”   Lizzie looked at the doll one last time, perhaps considering whether to snatch it back again.  Then she ran to her brothers and took Arthur’s hand.

Bravery, thought Arthur, took many different forms.

“Which Jack is a member of Tenacious D? Is it Jack Sparrow, Jack Kerouac, Jack Black or Jack Kennedy?’ asks Matt Marcus, game show host, possessor of blindingly white teeth and – as he once bragged to “Access Hollywood” – Minot, North Dakota’s most successful high school drop-out.

Matt is using his Earnest Look to gaze, while cheating to camera, at contestant Richard Wilson, who says he’s a teacher from Springfield, Illinois, but is actually an underemployed actor who heard that being on the Game Show Channel’s “Say That Again!” is a good way to get footage for his audition reel, with the added benefit of sometimes winning Omaha Steaks as a consolation prize.

Lauren Butler is watching the drama unfold from about ten yards away at the producers’ table, in an otherwise empty soundstage, except for the two dozen crew members required to tape six shows a day, all of whom look like they’d rather be outside smoking, except for the camera one operator, who looks like he’d rather be outside smoking and keeps muttering “jackass” under his breath.

A lifelong, vehement non-smoker, Lauren would gladly start smoking five packs a day of asbestos-coated cigarettes stuffed with uranium if it would just get her out of the studio for the rest of the day. But as the head writer of the Game Show Channel’s third-highest rated original program, which is routinely beaten in the ratings by reruns of just about everything that’s not Game Show Channel original programming, she’s stuck watching the complete lack of drama unfold.

After a suitably long, dramatic pause that will enable Richard the underemployed actor to use this footage as a soap opera submission, he says “Jack Black.”

“Hold!”

Charlie the stage manager has just brought the proceedings to a halt. Charlie is late-50s, has some pretty wild stories about the original “Dating Game” and only took this job to finance his online gambling addiction. He motions for Lauren to approach Matt.

She walks across the stage, carefully avoiding the “Say That Again!” logo, so some poor production assistant doesn’t have to Windex off her footprints.

Matt is getting his make-up retouched as Lauren approaches. He sees her out of the corner of his eye, then turns slightly away. It’s not that Matt and Lauren don’t like each other. She’s been the head writer on the show for three seasons, and they’ve developed the kind of we-need-each-other relationship most often found in high school between the nerd-hating jock who’s failing English – badly – and the smart girl who tutors him, in hopes of preventing any pigs’ blood prom nastiness.

Matt mispronounced one of the names in the question and it’s up to Lauren to set the record straight without embarrassing him in front of others.

Their boss, Penn Biftler, 5’10”, 105-anorexic, is both in the control booth and in Lauren’s ear on the headset. She can see everything on the stage, courtesy of camera one and the jackass guy. She buzzes Lauren on her headset, wanting to know why she isn’t briefing Matt.

“He’s getting make-up,” says Lauren.

“I can see that. But that just means he’s avoiding you because he knows he did something wrong. Why don’t you get rid of the make-up girl, and tell Matt how to pronounce ‘Kerouac,’ so we can get out of here without going into overtime for once. That would be a nice change, now, wouldn’t it? A tape day that ends on time. A tape day where one of your questions doesn’t feature arcane and hard-to-pronounce choices. A tape day where, just for once, everything moves smoothly.”

Since ending a tape day as early as possible is always a good thing, Lauren smiles at Janie, who does make-up and whose name Penn doesn’t know, even though there’s never been any other make-up person during the 240 insanely long and repetitive episodes of “Say That Again’s!” existence.

“Hey, Matt, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Lauren walks a few feet away out of Janie’s earshot. Matt reluctantly follows.

“What did I do wrong this time?”

“It’s pronounced ‘Kerouac’.”

“What did I say?”

She shrugs, like she doesn’t remember.

“What did I say?”

“Something like ‘Karaoke’.”

“I figured it was the guy who invented singing,” he says.

And Lauren’s pretty sure that guy wasn’t named “Karaoke,” but keeps it to herself.

Penn on the headset: “Lauren, we have ten minutes before overtime. Can you please wrap this up? Or is that too great of a task for you?”

“Who’s Jack Kera- Kera-…what’s his name again?” asks Matt.

“Kerouac. He was a famous poet, defined the Beat Generation, wrote On The Road.” Lauren says this last part just a tiny bit snotty, as if she hadn’t just unloaded her brain’s entire knowledge of Jack Kerouac into that one short sentence. And, for that matter, the Beat Generation. And poetry. Maybe she’s not the smart girl who tutors the jock as much as the girl who’s just smarter than the jock.

Matt nods. “Got it. Jack Karaoke.”

Penn on the headset: “Lauren, change the fucking question. Put another Jack in there, instead.”

This is the portion of game show rules you may have heard about concerning changes that don’t affect the outcome of the game. The contestant Richard – who’s currently looking in a mirror and adjusting his hair – already gave the correct answer. It doesn’t matter if they change the other choices, because it won’t affect the outcome. This is no “Quiz Show” scandal waiting to happen. This is basic cable TV on a budget.

Lauren tells Penn she doesn’t want to change the question. She wants to keep Jack Kerouac. Penn does not enthusiastically agree.

“No one even knows who that is!” says Penn. “Make it easier!”

“I’m asking a question about Tenacious D, for Chrissake. Two of the choices are dead and one isn’t even a real person. The only way this question gets easier is if we actually make all four choices ‘Jack Black.’ And then circle them. Can’t we, just for once, make this show a little bit smarter than it has to be? Or are we going to keep shooting for an audience of poo-slinging monkeys?”

Then things get really quiet, mostly because Lauren has stopped yelling. There’s no response from Penn. Minot’s finest just stares at Lauren. The only sound to be heard is a quiet “poo-slinging monkeys” from the guy at camera one.

Then, into the headphone, Penn utters a dangerously quiet “Fix this now.”

“So, what Jack is it going to be?” asks Matt.

“Daniels,” says Lauren, right before Penn tells her to meet her in her office after they wrap.

Thirteen years ago, John Masters and Lauren Butler sold a screenplay called “Solar Invaders” that got made into a movie that made a lot of money that spawned four sequels that also made a lot of money. They didn’t make all that much – the studio said something about hidden costs and threw around the words gross and net to the point where John and Lauren agreed to what they were saying just to make them stop saying it – but they ended up getting married and were very happy for a few years. Then it turned out Lauren was happy for a few years longer than John, who eventually fell in love with their assistant. Now John and the former assistant are happily married and he’s making a lot of money as a screenwriter. Lauren, on the other hand, is making very little money as a game show writer, since no one in Hollywood believes the person who did most of the writing on “Solar Invaders” was the wife of the husband and wife team.

Lauren is now 42 years old, divorced and living in a small house in North Hollywood with a very large crack in the bedroom ceiling and paying the bills by writing for one small show after another while “Say That Again!” is on hiatus, which is most of the year. Four months ago it was an infomercial. She is currently, fingers crossed, in contention to write “comedy-related material” for the upcoming tour of the girl who came in fourth place on “American Idol” a couple years ago. For the submission packet, they told Lauren to go easy on the dirty stuff, but to give them her most innovative material aimed at the American Idol/NASCAR demographic. When she jokingly told them her most innovative American Idol/NASCAR material was nothing but the dirty stuff, they just looked at her like she’d forced them to have abortions.

For the record, Lauren Butler has a very good idea of just how entitled her life is. She gets paid pretty well to sit in an office and write questions about pop culture. She’s not one of the extremely hard-working men and women seen every day in Los Angeles who came to this country at great sacrifice to exhaust themselves doing actual work at very little pay. She’s not even someone who works at an insurance company filing forms about other people’s bad days. She has a job where she can wear outrageously expensive jeans every single day and is one of those jerks who spends more at Starbucks each month than some people spend on Maxwell House in a decade.

So she has some perspective. But as she lies awake every night, staring at the crack in the ceiling and calculating just how strong the earthquake will be that finally splits her house in two, she can’t help but think there was supposed to be something more to life than being cynical and dying alone when the earthquake hits and the house finally collapses. It’s not like having someone else in the bed would prevent her from dying, but in those final moments of life, it’d still be nice to have someone to complain to. Because Lauren is pretty sure her attitude won’t improve as she lies there dying.

Lauren is sitting in Penn’s ridiculously tidy office.

Penn looks at her and smiles. “We’re letting you go.”

Lauren tries not to look as shocked as she feels. And fails.

“While your work has been, with some exceptions, quite satisfactory,” Penn says. “Your attitude is terrible. Pure shit, really. ‘Say That Again!’ doesn’t need someone who constantly second guesses me.”

“I thought I was hired for my judgment as well as my writing ability,” Lauren says.

“You were. But you don’t have any. ‘Say That Again!’ is hip, fresh and fun. We’re not Jack Kerouac people. We’re not Lauren Butler people.”

There’s a part of Lauren’s mind which knows that’s a good thing. But it’s currently being pummeled by the part of her mind that realizes she’s just been fired by a woman who doesn’t allow donuts in the break room.

“You’ve still got twelve more shows,” says Lauren. “Who’s going to write them on such short notice?”

“We’re re-purposing some of your rejected questions from earlier this season. Larry will do the necessary fixes.”

Larry is the 21-year-old intern who loves pop culture and, until recently, had never heard of “Friends.”

“So, this is it.” Penn stands, smiles fakely and holds out a nicely manicured hand.

Lauren stands, searches her mind for any memorable last words – she is a writer, after all – can’t think of anything, then shakes Penn’s hand.

Nicely done.

Today, I got the following comment from a reader about that post:

“Do you speak for everyone on the planet??? At least he spoke from his heart. What is your excuse?”

The answer is “yes, I do speak for everyone on the planet” and “I don’t need an excuse, because, please see above, re: speaking for everyone on the planet.”

But thanks for writing. 

Is this what it’s come down to for women?    Dying pretty and not being an old maid at 9?  Whatever happened to going to Disney World and meeting sports stars?  Or, for the 29-year-old, spending it all on drugs and ending things at one big party.  Or, what I would do, buy George Clooney for one long night or an hour or even ten minutes of phone sex.

And who really wants to go to all that much pain to look like Demi Moore?  That’s like going to college so you can be as smart as a contestant on Celebrity Jeopardy.  If you’re going to all the trouble, shoot for looking like one of those teenagers Hef claims to be banging.   Or have surgery where they give you a third arm, so at least you have something interesting to talk about at parties.

Besides, of course, that tumor growing in your head, which I imagine is pretty interesting, but probably brings the room down when you bring it up.

Obviously, nothing’s more tragic than a dying child and I can’t imagine not living to see my ’30s, although, to be honest, it was a rather mediocre decade.  But dying doesn’t mean you’re crazy, terminally ill women and children of the world.  Don’t make me make fun of you.

Shut it, America.

This week’s contest was to write diary entries for people, real or fictional, along with a date.  These are my submissions this week:

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From the Diary of Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt, Thanksgiving, 2021

UGH!!! Had to eat at the “biologicals” table again. So instead of talking about “abject poverty” and “how to recover from leprosy” at the “adopteds” table, I got stuck between Lantern Oasis Jolie-Timberlake and Horizon Ficus Jolie-Schwarzenegger. And they’re idiots. I hate this cult!

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From the Diary of Jenna Jameson, A Few Years Ago

Oh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Yes! YES!!!!

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From the Diary of Jon Stewart, Inauguration Day, 2009

Oh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Yes! YES!!!!!

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From the Diary of Walter Cronkite, Every Night After The CBS Evening News

(Illegible. Writing is washed away by copious tears.)

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From the Diary of “Soprano’s” Creator David Chase

Tony’s dead.

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From the Diary of Captain James T. Kirk, Stardate 36827.9

Now that I think about it, telecommunications technology hasn’t advanced much beyond early Twenty-First Century standards. And computers got a lot bigger. KHAN!

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From the Diary of Satan, Inauguration Day, 2009

Spending 8 years as Vice President was EXHAUSTING. 

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From the Diary of Bridget Jones, 13 February 2009

Caught Mark Darcy being smug and stand-offish to secretary. Must be having mid-life crisis affair, in manner of BBC presenter or U.S. President. But not like President Obama, who’s v. v. delicious. Must read up on American news, in case of travel to White House with cheating Mark Darcy’s barrister firm.

From the Diary of Bridget Jones, 14 February 2009

Hurrah! Received roses via secretary. Mark Darcy not cheating! Simply smug bastard to everyone. Will keep reading American news, just in case.

My seething hatred of Moore and Pelosi doesn’t just stem from their habit of starring in their films, despite having personalities more abrasive than the Old Dutch cleanser I keep saying I’m going to scrub my bathtub with.  It’s because, ostensibly, I’m on their side on the issues, but their films make me hate them so much personally I keep wishing I weren’t.

For instance, Pelosi did pretty much the unpardonable by making me feel sorry for George W. Bush – yes, that, George W. Bush – when she did the film “Journeys With George.” She tagged along on Bush’s press plane during the 2000 campaign, then blasted him for being, well, Bush.  And not Bush, the evil fucking non-genius behind Iraq.  It was more like Bush, the goofy guy you’d almost kind of like if he hadn’t turned out to be the evil fucking non-genius behind Iraq.  And she was only on that plane because he was doing her mother a favor.  I don’t care if, according to IMDB, Alexandra Pelosi does have a degree in communications from USC.  That doesn’t get you a job washing the press plane, let alone an audience with the future (and almost past – yay! – but not quickly enough — boo!) President.

And Moore made me root for Charlton Heston in “Bowling for Columbine.”  And I hate “The Ten Commandments.”  I was thinking “Huh.  The NRA makes some interesting points.” 

“Friends of God” reminded me of all those videographers at weddings who yell out inanities behind the camera as they try to make you come up with something clever to say to the bride, whom you only talk to at work for the amount of time if takes to burn your microwave popcorn, and the groom, whom you don’t know at all:

Videograher with wink and leer: Hey, got any tips for Ken and Lisa as they head off on their honeymoon? 

Me while looking for bar:  Have fun, Lisa and…………………………Ken?

I don’t know how you do a boring documentary about the fundamentalist movement in America, but I think it has something to do with that half-smirking, aren’t-I-smarter-than-you way of posing the questions, that kept making me hope one of the Christians was going to punch her like in that scene in “Witness.”  But, no, these Christians were Christians.

So, again, thanks, Alexandra, for making me think “Huh.  These people who are telling me I’m not a Christian if I’m pro-choice and love my gay friends, are pretty tolerant, after all.” 

And one last word to Michael Moore.  It’s so much easier for me to agree with you when you shut the hell up.  So keep doing that.

Right now, if you look out your window, you’ll see the words “I eat my feelings” written in the sky.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on Oprah’s appearances everywhere this week to talk about her weight gain.)

At the photo shoot, there was tension between the two Oprahs until 2012 Oprah arrived to show them it could get a lot worse.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on the cover of O Magazine, featuring two Oprahs: one from 2005 and one from today.)

The kneepads sure come in handy when you’re trying to raise approval ratings.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on Lindsay Lohan’s Mr. President leggings, featuring kneepads.)

No means 10 11 01 111 0101.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on a female robot that doesn’t let her creator get too fresh.)

Don’t tell Angie, but that’s Brad’s tie.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on the GQ cover featuring Jennifer Aniston wearing only a tie.)

My favorite article was “Come on, they’re not all gifts from God.”  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on Baby Talk Magazine’s headline “Straight Talk For New Moms”)

Apparently, she said the pregnancy this time really was just to ruin Jen’s Christmas.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on Star Magazine’s headline that Angelina Jolie is having twins again.)

So if you want your ball gown to literally say “I’m With Stupid,” call Angela.  (The Dish’s Danielle Fishel on designer Angela Johnson’s gowns made from old T-shirts.)

I might’ve understood it — to a degree — if it’d been on a Roto-Rooter van.  But this was on a truck belonging to an air conditioning company.  I realize there’s some connection between pooping and air quality.  But is this really the corporate message one wants to spread?

Maybe it’s a way to get out of a ticket.  The bumper sticker probably makes a fairly strong case that you have habitual bowel problems if you’re ever pulled over.  But at what cost?  Being known as an uncontrollable pooper?  I’d rather get the ticket.

And if it’s a sign of the guy’s (because you know a woman had nothing to do with this) sense of humor, again, I’d rather get the ticket.

I don’t know what possessed someone to put this on their car.  I don’t know what possessed someone to print up a bumper sticker like that.  I just know I want to stay far, far away from both of them.  Especially when they’re  speeding.  And pooping.

If we’ve truly come to a point in history where Hitler needs an introduction, something’s seriously wrong.   His is not one of those vague names like Calvin Coolidge where you don’t really why you know them.  No one ever says “Hitler…why was he famous again?”

And if, indeed, you have no basic knowledge of Hitler, I don’t want you learning about him from a Tom Cruise movie.  If you want to know how to be a spy or drive race cars fast or speak with a bad Irish accent, Tom’s your man.  If you want any understanding of genocide, you need to go to a history book.  Or talk to George Clooney.

This film will be an abomination.  And I can’t wait to see it!