Accounts for HuSi, showing incomings and outgoings.

Or, in this case, the day.

Some freak has written to me and threatened to sue me over something I posted on the Internet.

I guess it had to happen sooner or later.

Most of what I create does not see the light of day.

That's right. Most of my drawings ends up crumbled up in the trash, or burned, or deleted. Most of my screenplays I will never be stupid enough to try to make into movies or cartoons. A majority of the things I type will never be posted in the Scooposphere.

But today I'd like to share some samples of failure with you.

Can we talk?

I want to have a couple of words with you about next summer's splendorific boreal HuSiMeet and fireworks jamboree, the event which has come to be known as HuSistock.

My wife'll be the first to tell you: I have no idea when chicks dig me.

It's not like it's happened all that often, but it's happened; and every time it's happened I've missed it. I am the man on fire who cracks open the window and says, "A bit stuffy in here, isn't it?" I am the drowning man who thinks he's thirsty.

Most of the time it's happened it happened without fanfare -- with some chick digging me and then forgetting about it when it became clear I was oblivious. Nobody ever knew but her pink diary and maybe her best friend.

But there was one time when it was different. I mean, dramatic.

Let me explain:

There is really nothing that would mitigate the suckitude of the painful hackery posted below. All I can say in my own defense is that I sometimes have a masochistic compulsion to see ideas through to completion...even if those ideas are really, really stupid.

For example:

One week at the Old Schoolhouse, three parties of visitors did come: from Cabbagetown, France and Everywhere.

One of the visitors reportedly experienced the best day in his whole life.

I had a good time, too.

Okay, so it's six o'clock in the morning and it is now pretty much apparent that I'm as likely to make my ten o'clock deadline as I am to sprout singing ass-feathers by which I can navigate to Venus via an alternating effort of farting and flapping.

It's not really my fault.

But I feel somewhat uneasy about explaining this to the executive producer in a few hours. How do you open up a conversation like that? "So, about missing your flight..."

In which CheeseburgerBrown details the minutiae of his current situation, explains a few bruises, and shifts wantonly back and forth between the present and past tense for no particular reason beyond lazy typing and a lack of editing. No purchase necessary. See website for contest details, some restrictions apply.

In which CheeseburgerBrown emphatises with overworked mules, and broaches the idea of the HuSi 500.