PAUL - E

(Open on: Me, sitting at My desk.)Hi! You know, if there's one thing that's fascinated people throughout history, it's me. People are always asking about me, and how I put together this myspace page. "How long did it take you to make that?" they say. Or: "Does somebody pay you for that?" Or, even: "Is writing your blog some sort of court-mandated thing?" In light of this fascination with all things me, I thought I would give you a tour of my home -- a behind-the-scenes glimpse, if you will, at the life of a myspace member.(Patting my computer.)It all starts here, with my twelve hundred MHz, thirty GB window into the world. Why do I need such a powerful computer to write a myspace blog? The answer is simple: distractions. My HP laptop allows me to keep myspace from being too interesting by constantly tempting me to play "World of Warcraft." Also, it allows me to keep my web browser constantly open, so I can suddenly stop writing for no reason and waste time looking up some useless piece of trivia like who played Oscar Goldman.(tapping ..board for a moment.) It's Richard Anderson.(walking to a door labeled "TOP SECRET.")But that's the past. Let's turn to the future.Behind this door is my automatic writing project. As my fellow Internetonians have pointed out, if an infinite number of monkeys can write Shakespeare, I feel it should take about 6 to write a blog. And, in this room, I've taken the first steps towards realizing that dream.(opening the door, revealing a mangy-looking monkey sitting in front of a computer. The monkey is playing "World of Warcraft," although when it sees me it quickly quits and guiltily tries to look as if it's working. frowning I shut the door.)I'm thinking of starting over with chickens. Now, let's head to the basement and see my nuclear accelerator...(walking towards the stairs but, at the last minute, trips on a box of unsold "Spare Parts cds". I go flying, head over heels, down many flights of steps... finally landing in a painful and bloody heap on the basement floor.)Arghhh... legs broken... body shattered... broken femur popping through skin... must make a splint...(Fiddling with my belt buckle, but succeeds only in undoing my belt, revealing the beginnings of an impressive beer belly.)Damn! Wore wrong belt! Must get help... can't last long...(I then notice my cat watching from a nearby sofa. I start crawling to it, causing an artery to open and begin spurting blood across the room.)Hey... gypsy... go for help... go for help, girl... go upstairs and call an ambulance...(The cat stares blankly for a moment... then, a glimmer of understanding appears in its eyes. Decisively, it leaps down from the couch... and begins happily lapping from the pool of blood that is rapidly collecting around my mangled body.)Argh! Should have got a fish... come on, you stupid cat! Go for help!(My wife, turns to me and says "I'm right here; why don't you ask me?")No way! I want to see if the cat will do it!(I pass out. Fade to black.)ANNOUNCER: Will Paul survive? Was he right about Oscar Goldman? And how's that monkey coming along? Tune in for the answers to these and other amazing questions in the next exciting blog on http://paultoto.blogspot.com/

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