I’m sure that we’ve all wondered, at one time or another, what a cartoon strip starring Brandy and I might look like.

Thanks to the explosively talented Kevin LeBlanc, who turned my half-assed words into pretty pictures, you don’t have to wonder any longer!

strip500x500

(Notice that I am sitting at the end of the couch, while Brandy seems to be trying to sit as close to me as possible.  Just sayin’.)

Because I’m kind of a dork, instead of writing one script for Kevin to draw, I wrote five.

Here are the ones we didn’t choose:

Strip option #1

Panel 1
Peter: People have asked me why we aren’t dating.
Brandy: Sober people?

Panel 2
Peter: I am not sure how to answer them.
Brandy: How about with: Because you’re smug, conceited, sarcastic…

Panel 3
Brandy: …a pain in the ass, a know it all, AND you’re painfully self-absorbed.

Panel 4
Peter: Think vertical stripes would me me look too lanky?

Strip Option #2

Panel 1
Brandy: My day was a massive ball of sucking.
Peter: Hmm. I dated her in college. Linda… maybe?

Panel 2
Brandy: You went to college?
Peter: Sporadically.

Panel 3
Brandy: Aren’t you going to ask why my day sucked?
Peter: Why did your day suck?

Panel 4
Brandy: I don’t want to talk about it.
Peter: I wonder if Linda is on Facebook.

Strip option #3

Panel 1
Brandy: Do these sandals make my toes look chubby?
Peter: Yes.

Panel 2
Brandy: At any point did that seem like a smart reply to you?
Peter: No.

Panel 3
Brandy: And yet that’s what you said?
Peter: Yes

Panel 4
Brandy: Do you ever wonder why you are single?
Peter: Well someti– Noooo.

Strip option #4

Panel 1
Brandy: The date tonight.. I don’t think he liked me
Peter: I don’t believe it

Panel 2
Brandy: It’s true
Peter: Madness!

Panel 3
Brandy: He seemed… disinterested.
Peter: He’s a fool. A fool!

Panel 4
Brandy: Thank you for being so sweet.
Peter: Bad time to admit I was talking about the old judge on Dancing With The Stars?

**********

Thanks so much for checking out our STOG posts this week.  Make sure to read Brandy’s post this afternoon.  And come see us on our own blogs!

“You ever feel like, if your life was a movie, you’d be at that point where you were spending all your time unshaven, on your couch, wearing mismatched socks, ignoring phone messages, realizing the only thing in your fridge is six year old baking soda, watching Saved By The Bell:The College Years, and finally starting to understand country music lyrics, until a friend comes over and forces you to shower and go to a bar?”

“I guess…” she replied, looking at his socks.

“Can I tell you a story?” he asked.

“I’m kind of in a rush and–”

“It won’t take long.”  He assured.

“Uhm. OK…”

“I was a big shot advertising guy. I was at the top of my game. And I had been for a while. I know that I look young. I’m in my mid thir– early… late twenties. This was like any other pitch meeting…

I stared the client in the eyes. I smiled. I was confident.

My boss, standing in the corner, smiled too. He had seen that look in my eye before. He knew that a home run was coming.

“So, how are we going to sell more hamburgers?” The client asked the room.

“I can answer that with one word… complete customization.” I smiled broadly.

“Complete customization?”

“With so many fast food–”

“Good food prepared quickly,” the client interrupted.

“With so many options for good food prepared quickly,” I continued, “we need a way to differentiate you from the competition. And what we’ve come up with is… let people put their own toppings on. Anything they want. And the slogan is… Are you ready for this?”

“I think so,” the client replied.

“Put whatever you want between our buns.”

I waited for the applause. The “you did it again!”s. But…

*crickets*

“Could I see you in my office for a moment?” my boss asked, taking me by the arm and half-dragging me out of the room.

As soon as he closed the door to his office behind us, “Ignoring the obvious questions: Is that even hygienic? Isn’t that from a Seinfeld episode? PUT WHATEVER YOU WANT BETWEEN OUR BUNS?”

“Yes…”

“Were you kidding” he asked.

I wasn’t.

“I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, I’m going to have to let you go.”

“Home for the afternoon to watch ESPN Classic?” I asked.

“Pack up your stuff and leave”

“They are showing the Doug Flutie throw from college!”

But he was already gone back to the meeting.

So I went to clear out my desk. It didn’t take long. A framed picture of my gorgeous girlfriend got placed in a small cardboard box, along with a half eaten Crunchie bar, a semi-ironic red Swingline stapler, a copy of The New Yorker, and a squeezable stress ball.

I didn’t have to wait long in front of the building for my bus to come along. I got on it. Nothing interesting happened there, so I don’t know why I’m telling you this part.

When I arrived home, my girlfriend was standing in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. That is never a good sign.

“Hi.” I offered.

“I’m pretty. I’m smart, right?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” I said, still holding my box in front of me.

“I’m a good cook. I’m sweet. I’m a catch…”

“… and release,” I mumbled.

It was at that point that I fully gathered just how serious she was and how unimpressed she was with my obvious wit.

I hadn’t seen her look that mad since our first date. That was when I told her that, “Your voice is lovely. If you did books on tape, I’d listen to every single one… and masturbate.”

That… didn’t go over well.

I tried to explain that I was kidding. And that I make jokes like that when nervous.

Somehow she agreed to a second date.

Back to her raging and me holding a box.

“You’ve never been the best boyfriend. I’ve accepted that. You have horrible fashion sense.  You unspool the toilet paper over the top. You threw a dart through my college diploma. Was the diploma close to your dart board?”

“Not really.”

“Where was the dartboard?” she asked.

“In another room.”

“And?”

“In our neighbour’s apartment…”

“Yes. So for those things, and so many more, I think we should break up.”

I searched for words.

“At least,” she continued. “I hope you learned something from dating me.”

“Yeah… you’ve been cautionary tail” were the words I found.

But didn’t say.

I didn’t figure the tale/tail thing would work so well if I had to spell it out.

T-A-I-L?

Nevermind.

“I’ll be back for my stuff tomorrow while you are at work.” She grabbed her bag and walked towards the door.

I stood, staring and still holding my box.

She looked back over her shoulder. “And you were bad in bed.” The door closed behind her.

I barely blinked. Then the bottom fell out of my box. The items landed on the floor. My stress ball hit my toe and rolled across the room…

He shook his head. A little wore out from telling the story.

“She said I was bad in bed! Can you imagine? Because… ha… I know which side the biscuit is buttered on, you know?”

“Uhm… sir. I just wanted to sell you some girl scout cookies.” said the eight year old, with a terrified look in her eyes.

“Oh yeah. Two boxes of thin mints, please.”

He passed her some cash and took his cookies.

The little girl beat a hasty retreat down the hall. At the stairway, she met a little red headed girl in the same uniform.

“I sold fifteen boxes! How did you do?” the red head asked.

“Two.”

“You only sold two? What happened?”

“Adults are fucked.”

“I hear that.” the red head replied as they started walking down the steps.

Dear Lauren Graham,

Hi.

I hope this letter finds you well.  Because, you know, I assume you’re reading this STOG.

Oh.  You don’t know me, but I’ve been a fan since the “Caroline in the City” days.  And I’m still not speaking to ABC for canceling “Townies.”

We also have a six degrees thing going.  An ex-girlfriend’s fiancee is good friends with good friends of yours.  (Or something.)  And my ex uses this info to torture me.  She’s an evil, evil, evil, cute, evil woman.  (She also says you have broad shoulders, so be mean to her if you ever meet!)

I wrote a screenplay with you in mind once.  I convinced your agent to read it.  She even called me when she was finished with it.  She said all kinds of lovely and complimentary (and truthful) things about it and then mentioned, “When you come up with the funding, let me know and I’ll pass it along to Lauren.”

So I checked between the cushions of my couch, but only found $1.07.  Canadian.  And a Bazooka Joe comic.  It was the one with the very dated pun.  Do you remember it?

I should also mention that, when your agent called, I had the flu and a super high fever.  For the first half of the conversation I thought she was a girl I dated in college.  I’m glad I didn’t mention “that time, in the hotel room, with the jumper cables and ventriloquist’s dummy.”

Kidding.

I’m kidding.

It was a sock puppet.

Now I don’t typically give career advice to people.  Mostly because I’m staggeringly self-absorbed.  However I have the perfect idea for you.  Well, more like ideas…

– A TV drama.  It’s set inside a big Chicago ad agency being run by a recently divorced couple.  It’s written by Aaron Sorkin and stars you and Matthew Perry.

– A TV drama.  It’s set inside the world of international espionage and features a pair of siblings — one an agent, one an analyst.  It’s written by Aaron Sorkin and stars you and Matthew Perry.

– A TV drama.  It’s set inside the world of an uber successful political family in New England and features a newly divorced daughter who is going through a sexual re-awakening.  It’s written by Aaron Sorkin and stars you and… me.

In conclusion (almost), I think that we should get together for a coffee, or to play Facebook Scrabble.

I’m delightful.  Ask around.  Just don’t ask ex-girlfriends… or family members… or neighbors… or professors or teachers I’ve had…  or the government…

Seriously.  Ask around.

I’m a nice guy.  I recycle.  I give back rubs that I don’t expect to lead someplace.  (Conversely, if I have to open a jar for you, expect to be required to put out like a fiend.)

Lauren Graham, in this crazy, fast-moving world, aren’t we all just looking for a connection?  A co-pilot for our adventures.  A Lewis for our Clark.  A Bert for our Ernie.  A Zach Morris for our Kelly Kapowski.  Lauren Graham, we can’t be afraid to take a chance on love, because, in life, there is no greater reward.

However if things don’t work out between us, could you introduce me to Anne Hathaway?

With warm regards and occasional wandering hands,
Peter

-ps Sorry your sitcom didn’t get picked up for the fall.  😦

– pps Your shoulders are slim and lovely.

like you mean it

May 26, 2009

sometimes
i wonder if you’re
hearing the words
the way that i am
hearing the words
the way they were meant
it’s not the kudos
it’s really not
though it’s lovely
and appreciated
but it would take more than that
more than praise is needed
to convince one
to spend so long
toiling
over words
over meanings
over cadence
and over again
and
it’s not just the cadence…
it’s not just the cadence
alone
that resonates with me
it’s the words
saying so much more
about me than them
or us
it’s not what we don’t know
but what we do
what we always have
that trips us up
me
words pulled forth
by a smile
a flash of creation
would be disappointing
if they felt like enough
yet I need to
you know…
i want to write something
i want to write something that
makes people feel
like they are reading something
special
i want to force
involuntary smiling nods
i want to write
something
that is more than just
a combination of words
i want to find a greater truth
i want to write
something
that makes people say
“yes.  yes!”
i want to lift up
and up
i want to make goosebumps form
i want to write
something
that by any measure
is good
really, really good.
and

I want you to read it.

Hi.  I’m Peter.

“Hi, Peter!”

Hi.

I can’t remember who it was that first called me “a blog visionary.”

But it was probably me.

I know you have questions, tweedle bugs.  I’m bringing the answers.

Patience is more than just a name you give your child who eventually grows up to be a super talented pole dancer with warm eyes that make a man believe that her feelings are genuine and that even though she takes money to spend time with him she actually really enjoys it and–

OK.

Many of us have moonlighted on group blogs. I created (and eventually abandoned) Burt Reynolds’ Mustache. Brandy is one of the posters at Ummm… Now What?

The problem with group blogs, typically, is that the posters are usually blogging at two places at once.  It can be taxing.  Soon your hygiene goes to hell.  You are skipping your weekly orgy to write blog posts.  It’s… not fun.

But Brandy and I knew that we wanted to do a project together. We owed it to the world.

We wanted something different. We tossed around some ideas. Maybe I would post in french.  Maybe Brandy would type only with her nipples. Which, frankly, might be problematic as her left nip is a tad dyslexic.

I wanted to create something called, “Peter brings sexy back… while Brandy comes along for the ride.”

She…  didn’t much like the idea.

Eventually we settled on a short term blog. Or a…

Wait for it…

Wait…

Sorry. My phone is ringing.

One sec.

I’m on hold now.

Fuck it.

We settled on a short term blog. Or a…

STOG.

On a scale of 1 to “Miley is Hannah Montana?!?!” how blown is your mind right now?

It was decided that we would run this STOG for a week.  That’s it.  No longer.

When the week is over, we’ll just let the STOG sit there.  Brandy likened it to “a time capsule.”  It will mark but a moment in time in the bogging era.

A genius moment, because it is us, but a moment nonetheless.

I’ll be posting each morning this week. (Monday – Friday.)  And Brandy will handle the afternoons.  Each day will have a theme (of sorts) but we won’t tell you what they are.  We’re creating art here, people!

I don’t want to oversell this, but Brandy and I together on the same blog is the greatest combination since…

Chocolate syrup and milk. Or Lennon and McCartney. Or my motor boatin’ face and your booobs.

Still unsure what a STOG is?

It is magic sliding down a rainbow into a pot of awesome.

Oh. The title?

Well, we’re not a couple.

Duh.

Plus, why should only couples be allowed to do a couples blog? (Or STOG.)

We hope that you enjoy our STOG (and check in at least twice a day.)

And we hope that you’ll try your own.

But not until we are done with ours.

Thunder-stealing bastardos.

(The “o” shows you that I mean businessx.)

(The “x” shows you that I have big Canadian fingers.)