The prompt over at Sunday Scribblings is ‘big dreams.”
“Quiet on set, we’re live in five, four, three, two, one…”
The sensors? No I don’t feel ‘em. They’re wrapped in a little foam stickie and that stickie attaches to the skin and it feels just fine, thank you. The wires trial from that. Nothing is injected. No needles pierce my skin or anything.
And no, there’s no Zolpidem, Clonazepam or Triazolam involved. I’m clean, man. That’s why the show comes on when it comes on.
“We interrupt our tape-delayed broadcast to bring you “Big Dreams,” live and already in progress.”
Briggs told me last week that I’d been picked up for next season. We’re working out the details on syndication.
I think the show works, ‘cause it’s a mashup of comedy and horror. Toss in some sex now and then – being a perv certainly doesn’t hurt – and you’ve got something society craves. It’s hard to turn away from, really. Like passing a car wreck on the highway. You’ll pass slow, just in case you see blood or something.
I’m the star of my own reality show.
I sleep through every episode.
People feast on my every unconscious desire.
I’m bipolar - and I’m off my meds.
Hey, we’re unscripted here.
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