Cliches I Dreamed About Using But Never Did
“Abandon ship! “That was the word I heard when the new boss did an about face and told us workers how absolute power does not corrupt absolutely. I didn’t get all bent out of shape even though I knew I was all dressed up with nowhere to go. Would I retire? Would I start a new career? Would I be like my mom and sit around as snug as a bug in a rug watching Oprah reruns all day? You know how an apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, so, as luck would have it, I got a job reading bad writing.
This editing gig showed me that I zigged when I should have zagged. As hard as it was to zip my lip whenever I read a great image or quality piece of conversation, I inserted a cliché. Yep! I could feel them coming on. The cliché shakes. It’s the way you feel when you need a drink, or a chocolate bar.
I felt like a baby boomer babe in the woods whose back was against the wall trying to escape from a back stabbing back seat driver. You know the type? The kind of bald faced liar who tells a writer that their piece does not deserve the bum rap that the literati are giving it, even when the editing includes a baker’s dozen full of typos, grammar mistakes and plain old unpunny puns.
Every time I had to call somebody on the carpet in order to call a spade a spade about their deliriously funny ideas, I knew I was opening up a can of worms. I just couldn’t help it. The more I read, the more I clichéd. I understood that I was trying to squeeze blood out of a turnip and that this editing job was a cash cow, but being serious about the world of letters was just not in my vocabulary.
Explaining the situation to my wife was worse than telling her about my mistress. My beautiful and understanding soul mate, the girl of my dreams simply cooed, “Cut to the chase. If you keep crying over spilled milk, I’ll divorce you and cry all the way to the bank. With your alimony checks”.
What to do? Lost in a world of clichés. What I first thought was funny, had turned out as a David versus Goliath ghost tour of the mind. I couldn’t stop! I was trapped in a world where image met cliché’. My editing job had become death by a thousand cuts. My wife had me dead to rights about divorcing me, and then she dealt the fatal blow.
After eating my hat, rather than my gun, the argument with my wife ended. I was responsible for the whole enchilada. Clichés and more clichés. And more cliches’ after that. Thus, sleep that night was full of empty flattery disguised as dreams. The rest I took, if you could call it that, was slumber with an eight hundred pound gorilla on my chest. I woke up with end over end worry. Not to mention a gin fueled hangover.
My wife? She gave me an e ticket to ride. “Darling? Why don’t you quit that old editing job of yours? See if the newspaper will take you back.”
“Which one?” I asked my fair haired one. I knew she was fanning the flames of my heart.
“The important one. The one where you interview football heroes after their games. Unless you really need straight answers. Maybe you can go back to covering politicians.”.
That’s my wife! Always firing on all cylinders.
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