“Okie dokie. The guy is on the roof aiming at the slobs below. How many does he kill? With the silencer he has a lot of time, I would think, to kill a batch of them. What do you think?”

He raised his head and looked at me with curiosity, if not confusion.

I raised my eyebrows. “C'mon, give me a break. What's wrong with that?”

An ear popped up, but then he turned to his brother and sniffed his ear. His brother remained bored with the whole thing, and he began to lick his genitals.

“Nice. If I could do that, there wouldn't be a reason to leave the house.”

Archie, the younger brother of Asta, stopped his self-cleansing and laid back down on his pillow and promptly fell asleep. Asta looked at him, back at me, barked as if to say, “Sucks to be you, master,” and made his way to the pillow, deciding a nap was more interesting than listening to me ramble on about the newest idea for a short story.

You may think that using my dogs as a sounding board may be a little…out there, but it happens more often than you would think. I did a short survey of some writer friends of mine, and asked them if they talked to their pets, walls, or even their potted plants. Not in an everyday situation, mind you; I didn't think they were totally insane…well, the majority, anyway. Over half of them said yes, they talk to their cats, dogs, and in one case, an aquarium full of fish. I didn't ask what kind of fish were in the tank. Most of the people in this informal survey said that by definition writers are weird to begin with, and would do just about anything to get a great idea for a story. One writer said that he doesn't like to talk to anybody, let alone pets, but still confessed hat he thought himself strange.

I'm a babbler, I guess. I seem to talk to myself even if I'm not writing, so the transition to talking to my dogs was such a small step on my way to insanity, I never noticed it. Now that I'm aware of it, I just roll with it. After all, there's the slightest chance that when I ask them the question they might actually answer. Of course, I'm sort of hoping that someone is around when they do, because…er…well, it means that maybe I took the final plunge, and should have one of those nice jackets with very long sleeves with pretty buckles on them.

Speaking of insanity, I've found a new hobby that I can do from the comfort of my living room couch. It's called, “Answer the Stupid Question”, and it goes like this:

While you are watching television, keep a sharp eye out for the commercials that ask you a question, such as, “Are you one of the select individuals that needs to lose a lot of weight?” or the ever popular, “Are you satisfying your wife in bed?” The key to the game is to have someone next to you on the couch. My co-player is my wife Susan, who is a sometimes unwilling partner in the escapade, but that makes it a little more interesting.

When the all-knowing advertiser asks the question, look at the co-player and say, “Well? Do you need to lose some weight? Huh? Huh?!” Try to sneer a little, and put a lot of condescension in your voice, and then watch the fun begin! I've found that when using the weight commercials with my wife, I tend to get a lot of bruises on my arm, but no one said that this game didn't have some risk.

Car commercials are fun to play along with, too. You can see this guy talking on the screen no matter where live. He usually is wearing an ill fitting suit, and his teeth are an unusual shade of white. He screams, “Do you want to buy a car but your credit sucks? We can help! You say you just got divorced from that fat slob, and he ruined your credit buying internet porn and Dominos pizzas? We can help! You say you've just been released from prison on a trumped-up murder charge, and you need a car? We can help! We can help anyone regardless of past credit history! No history! No legs! No brains! Don't speak English? We don't give a crap! Just come on down and sign your life away!” I'm glad that we have a digital video recorder, (you know…the one that stops live action?) because I was able to stop the commercial and read the fine print at the bottom. (It's called a disclaimer!)

Individuals must leave a sample of their DNA, photograph, fingerprints, urine, feces, hair, small intestine, ligaments, and any first-born children as security for this loan, once approved. Once approved, individual (or approved family member) must work for our wallet factory in India for a term no less than six years. Individual must sign release form stating that all current and future income will be assigned to the Car Company, Inc., and all of subsidiaries. Individual must also put on approved clown suit or approved life-sized wiener outfit to promote The Car Company's wholly owned restaurant chain, “Frank-n-Clown's”, at the Car Company's sole discretion. Individual will…”

Whew! And to think, I was almost tempted to buy a car from these people. At least I sure felt like it after watching the commercial. Susan always gives me the bent eye after I start saying, “Susan! We must buy a car! We MUST BUY A CAR!”

She looks at me, and then calmly says, “Honey. We have two cars. We don't need another car.”

“But Susan! They say we'll never see deals like this again!”

At this time, she will pat me on the shoulder in sympathy, or klonk me upside the head as she sees fit. While I'm unconscious, she always takes the opportunity to put on the “Soap Network” to catch up with the soap operas she's missed during the week. I'm not allowed to make fun of them anymore. She's explained to me that there is no statute about wives beating husbands with cast-iron skillets when they make derisive comments about why there is always someone in a coma, and the lover/wife/husband/kangaroo is waiting anxiously for them to wake up so they can stop the plot to take over the family leach/wombat/kangaroo import business. And can someone please tell me why the actors always look at the person they are talking to for twenty seconds before they break for commercial? I'm constantly waiting for the other one to say, “What the hell is wrong with you? I just asked you for the keys to the car! Answer me, dammit!” And for God's sake! Is it mandatory to have a guy with an eye patch? Man! The pirates union must have some pull!

When we watch television, I can count on Susan to get a craving for no-fat pretzels, so when she gets up, it gives me an opportunity to steal the remote back. I try to set up a backup channel to watch, as to avoid the commercials on the station we are watching, using the handy “recall” button. Lately, it's been the “World Championship of Poker”, usually held at one of the larger casinos in Las Vegas . This is full-contact sport at its best. They actually had a segment interviewing players on the hazards of paper cuts. No, really!

We still get stung by commercials, no matter how hard we try. The newest male enhancement commercial shows a woman's gyrating torso about four inches away from the camera, and the voice-over says, “Well, men? Do you want some of this?” I gave them credit for getting right to the point. The camera pans off to a woman, who at first glance is pretty good looking, in a Hollywood -I'm-hooked-on-crack sort of way. The voice-over says, “She used to think that older guys were a waste of time, only good for marrying if the pre-nup wasn't too harsh. But now there's Vasi-Pump, and she will do a one night stand just for the sex!” The camera zooms in on the happy couple's faces. He looks like he just left Tijuana after a three week bender, and she's now a runner-up on the new reality show, “Who Wants to Marry an Ugly Skank.”

I looked at Susan, the words on my lips, but she's already running out to the kitchen to get the skillet.

Back in my office, I'm pounding away on the keyboard, trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. The dogs are waking up after their nap, and stretching themselves by digging their claws into my leg.

“Dammit, you guys! Knock that off!” I say. “All right. Now that you're awake, I've got the killer off the roof after he's killed thirteen people, and he's racing for the car he's stashed—get this—at the local police station! Now…should I end it there, or add a chase scene?”

Asta yawned, smacked his lips, and said. “Master, it sounds all a little far-fetched. Nobody would keep the get-away car at a cop station. Now. How ‘bout a biscuit?”

Archie just shook his head, and murmured, “What a hack.”

As usual, there's not a soul around. By the way; on the jacket? I'm a fifty regular.