If Dog's Could Write Comedy...

... they'd be fucking rich.

I have set up another project; yes, another bloody project. I've been working with my good friend Kerry, developing comedy sketch ideas, but I've decided to push it and bring aboard more people. I put out an small advert calling for comedy talent on the Meetup.com writer groups of Toronto; I have good faith in Canadian comedians, although they tend to become American when they get famous.

Surprisingly, I've had a good response so far, I wanted about six people like the original Python team ('we're not worthy...'), but I've got about eight now. I like to think of them as the Dirty Dozen. I have no idea why they would want to work with me or respond to an advert of me posing semi-naked and drunk in my cum stained underwear.

This is a good team. We hope to produce a truckload of sketches and sell them to CBC, possibly making a pilot show to go with it; I've asked for people who don't mind performing in front of a camera.

The only problem is...

I seem to have become increasingly serious over the past few days; as soon as any pastime starts to become a money making venture, I just freeze up and become somewhat comatose. What is wrong with me? I asked myself in the mirror, looking at my wasted body; am I dying?
'Maybe I am dying' said my mouth as my ear listened intently.
'No wait' said my mouth.
'What?' said my ear.
'Huh? who the fuck are you?', said my mouth.
'I am your next door neighbour..' replied my ear.
'Oh.'
'Can I borrow some sugar?'
'Sorry, I'm out of sugar, but I've got some of that aspartame stuff...'
'That stuff keeps me awake.'
'Better than having a cigarette shoved up your arse.'