Fetch My Clubs. And The Baby Seals

"You're getting very sleepy," Dr. Phil said softly, as he slowly swung a pocket watch like a pendulum before my eyes.

"As a matter of fact, I'm quite awake," I said, "I slept very soundly. It is a very positive side effect of my Vicodin addiction."

"To tell the truth," I continued, "I cannot think of one negative side effect."

"How about memory loss?" Dr. Phil countered testily.

"That is debatable," I argued, "I once awoke next to a naked, sweaty, heaving Rosie O'Donnell, with no memory of how I came to be in such a dire position. I am absolutely thankful that any memory of our encounter was expunged. I chalk that particular blessing up to Vicodin."

Nonetheless, I knew he was correct. The only reason he was attempting to hypnotize me is because of my loss of memory, in particular, my inability to recall the location of my latest manuscript, which I was certain to be The Greatest Story Ever Written. Dr. Phil only stared at me blankly.

"But please continue," I added.

"This isn't working," he grumbled, putting the pocket watch away. He rubbed his chin deeply as he struggled for a solution. I was not an easy nut to crack.

"I've got it," he finally cried. He reached into his weathered satchel, retrieving a small statue. He placed the statue on the table before me. It was The Greatest, Muhammad Ali, regaled in his ring attire with arms raised victoriously skyward.

"Look into the Champ's eyes," he whispered, and I met the statue's steely gaze. His was the look of a warrior poet, filled with wisdom and virtue. He was a mirror into my soul.

"Whatever you do, you must maintain eye contact with the Champ," Dr. Phil added, and then he gently flicked the Champ's tiny head with his finger, causing it to bobble from side to side. And the Champ stood there, so tiny, his arms raised in victory, and his head bobbling continuously.

"So...lifelike," I mumbled, as my eyelids grew heavy.

"Now," Dr. Phil said, "I want you to tell me about last Friday night."

My eyes were closed and I shook my head vigorously. My limbs thrashed about.

"No...no!" I cried.

And suddenly I was sitting at the desk in my study. Outside the window the sky was a brilliant purple evening haze signalling the beginning of the weekend. I looked at the stack of post-its on the desk in front of me. There lies my brilliance, I thought. It was my newest work, an endeavor into experimental writing wherein I write random thoughts on post-it notes, get thoroughly wasted on whiskey and narcotics, then rearrange the notes into a blind narrative. It was a technique I learned when I was a staff writer at CSI: Miami. My admiration for my work was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Enter," I ordered. K-Ro opened the door.

"Sir," he said, "You're wearing lipstick again."

"Hard at work, K-Ro," I said, "Writing, as you know, takes a special sort of concentration. Sobriety and accepted gender identification play no part in the process. By the way, you're wearing nothing but a golden thong."

"I was choreographing a new interpretive dance, sir," he replied.

"Of course," I said, "What can I do for you, old friend?"

"Tiger Woods has stopped by," he said, "He wishes for another swing lesson."

"Of course," I said. It would be good to get away from my work for a while.

"Show him in, K-Ro" I said, "Then fetch my clubs. And the baby seals."

"Very well, sir," K-Ro said.