Bad Ideas

You’re supposed to keep a notebook and pen by your bedside, so you can write down all the inspiration you receive while you’re in a semiconscious state and most receptive to new ideas. I don’t. Which makes me wonder what flashes of brilliance I’m getting that I don’t remember, because the ones I do remember are my absolute best ideas.

All while lying awake bed at night, I’ve decided that I should

  • get in touch with my drug addict former best friend so we can be besties again
  • quit my job and become a sushi chef
  • quit my job and become a barista
  • write a children’s book series about a superhero who is a personified piece of lasagna
  • remake Edvard Munch’s “The Scream” out of pudding
  • renew my wedding vows so I can have 26 attendants and dress them all up like The Letter People from the 1970s
  • google how much it costs to buy an autoharp so I can perform my own humorous songs like Stephen Lynch or Garfunkel and Oates without learning how to play the guitar
Oh no, bridesmaids and groomsmen. As a matter of fact, we're NOT going to David's Bridal.
Oh no, bridesmaids and groomsmen. As a matter of fact, we’re NOT going to David’s Bridal.

I’ve never even seen an autoharp since seventh grade general music class—and God knows why we had them there, probably because some guy at the Board of Ed was lying in bed one night and thought, “You know what would be great? Supplying a room full of 12-year-olds with a set of chorded zithers.” (If you’re wondering, you can order an Oscar Schmidt 20-chord autoharp from Amazon. According to the reviews, it’s a “beautiful instrument” of “fabulous quality.” The name Autoharp® is synonomous with Oscar Schmidt.)

Every neuron in my prefrontal cortex is firing a warning signal that I shouldn’t move my mouse toward the “Buy Now With 1-Click” button on Amazon, but a deeper part of me is motivated by the conviction that I shouldn’t deprive the world of what are destined to become autoharp classics. Without a doubt, the songs already in my repertoire, composed all over the world in moments of genius, comprise an irresistible collection:

“Mammary Glands” (“producing milk whenever nature demands”)

“The Munich Airport Theme Song”

“Mountain Cow” (a loving tribute to the tapir)

“Diseases Pubic” (a medley of reinvented, STD-related favorites from The Sound of Music)

“I Have a Dictionary in my Anus”

I'll put it down on paper/That I adore the tapir
I’ll put it down on paper/That I adore the tapir
My crotch is a-rife/With diseases puuuuubic
My crotch is a-rife/With diseases puuuuubic
How do you solve/ Recurrent gonorrhea?
How do you solve/ Recurrent gonorrhea?

Who wouldn’t buy that album?

There was also a song about a dinosaur with a tragically large brain-size-to-body-size ratio, but it’s been lost to posterity.

I think it was because I made it up in bed at night and didn’t write it down.

 

Photo credits: ripjaggerdojo.blogspot.com, telegraph.co.uk, Amazon.com, rnh.com

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