Administrator June, 2006

The To Do List

11PM @ the Lighthouse. Morgan is sitting up in bed, typing out a paper for her medical anthropology class on her laptop. Beside her is Flame, the fat orange cat. He’s laying Sphinx like facing the foot of the wood and wrought iron bed, inscrutably staring with feline attentiveness at one of the invisible house fairies napping atop Lady Lillith’s altar. Weyland comes in, wearing mismatched socks and plaid pajama bottoms. His tee shirt says BURNED OUT BUT STILL SMOKIN’.

Morgan (without looking up): Thought I told you to toss that shirt.

Weyland: What shirt?

Morgan (still typing): The one you’re wearing, you idiot.

Weyland (looks down at himself): Oh. (Shrugs.) Wasn’t on today’s To Do list, hon.

Morgan: You need a list to remember what clothes you have on?

Weyland (paging through a tiny spiral notebook): Doesn’t everybody?

Morgan: Strangely, no.

Weyland (putting a yellowed paperback on the bookshelf): And now I can check off The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper.

Morgan: I knew there was somebody else.

Weyland (nods): T. McGee. We’ve been tight since I was in the Air Force.

Morgan: So why are you still reading the series if you started back in the 20th century?

Weyland: I do ‘em over & over again. They’re that good.

Morgan: Wish you’d show that much interest in helping around the house.

Weyland: Bite your pretty tongue, impetuous ingrate. Half of these check offs are– (squints at notebook) –laundry, dishes, trash and litter boxes.

Flame and Morgan look at each other. Even the cat seems impressed.

Morgan: Maybe I’ll keep you after all.

Weyland: You’d be a fool not to, babe. With this list handy, I’ll never forget anything again.

(Unheard by all save Flame, the little house fairy laughs until she rolls off the altar.)

Morgan: Uh huh. C’mon, Harry Lorayne, it’s past our bedtime.

Weyland: Okay.

Wey hops into bed and under the covers. They both check their respective alarm clocks, then Morgan turns out the light.

Weyland: Oops.

Morgan: Huh?

Weyland: I forgot to lay out my clothes for work tomorrow.

He turns on his red lamp, hops up and scurries about, rummaging through drawers and the closet. Finally he jumps back into bed.

Weyland: Whew. Glad I remembered that.

Morgan (sleepily): Me too, honey. Can we go to sleep now?

Weyland: You betcha.

Lights out.

Weyland: D*mmit.

Morgan: You’re kidding, right?

Weyland: I have to say my prayers!

He hops up and a feline yowl sounds loudly as Flame makes a noisy departure.

Morgan: What did you do to the cat?

Weyland (turning on the red light): Lo siento, ole buddy. Didn’t see you down there.

Morgan buries her head under the pillow while Wey stands at both altars, ringing bells and mumbling. Then he comes back to bed.

Weyland: Wow, that was a close one! Good thing it was on the list.

Morgan: I’m so proud. Good night.

Weyland: Night, Babe.

Lights out.

Weyland: Oh, sh*t.

Morgan: I’m going to kill you.

Weyland: We forgot to have sex.

Morgan: Touch me and I’ll scream.

Weyland: But honey, the list–

Morgan: Forget your list! The playground is closed for the evening!

Weyland: D*amn….

Wey begins to snore. Morgan wraps herself around him, puts her head on his shoulder, and goes to sleep.

***

author bio:

Weyland Smith lives in Mercer County New Jersey with the bright and beautiful Morgan, her two children, and their cats & familiars Flame and Macavity. They may be reached at weylandsmith@verizon.net Any and all rumors that Weyland and New Jersey governor John Corzine were twins who were separated at birth are completely bogus–Wey’s a Republican. (And a poor Republican, at that! Sheesh…)

Tags: Weyland Smith

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Administrator May, 2006

Nix at Nite

The Lighthouse:

Weyland: Loocy. I’m ho-ome!

Morgan (in the living room with Celeste, talking on the phone): Hi, honey! We were just talking about you.

Weyland: Tell ‘em check’s in the mail.

Morgan: I’m talking to Dad, Big Spender. He’s watching John Corzine on the news. Says you look just like him.

Weyland (glares at Celeste, who puts up her hands, palms out): Harumph.

Morgan: Honey, c’mon–you guys could’ve been separated at birth.

Weyland: The only Democrats I resemble were JFK and Bobby.

Roaring laughter pours from the phone. Wey scowls at Morgan, his bald head scarlet, but before he can say anything, he yells and grabs his leg.

Morgan: Gotta go, Dad. Temperature’s rising over here. (The laughter intensifies.) See ya.

Weyland (carefully peeling Flame the cat off his trouser leg): Meathead, if you weren’t our familiar, I’d flush you….

Celeste (admiringly): He’s getting faster. Think he holds a grudge for being fixed?

Weyland: If he does, just shoot me.

Morgan (tapping him on the shoulder): Well?

Weyland: Well what?

Morgan: How do you like it?

Weyland (brightly): Fine! Looks great!

Morgan (in her dangerous voice): You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?

Weyland gives Celeste a helpless glance. She points discretely at a shiny 4×3 metal edged mirror hanging over the dining room buffet.

Weyland: I spotted that big honkin’ thing soon as I walked in the door, Sweetness. How’d you hang it up? It’s bigger than you are.

Morgan: Adrenaline. (Looks suspiciously at Celeste.)

Weyland: Good work, hon! Let’s all power walk down to The Blessed Bean and celebrate! The latte’s on me!

Morgan: Last time you sprang for latte was Valentine’s Day, ’cause you were too cheap to buy me flowers.

Weyland (smiling down at her): Darlin’, every day with you is Valentine’s Day.

Morgan: You are so full of cr*p. Let me get my coat before you change your mind. (Goes into another room.)

Weyland: I bought her flowers….

Celeste: One doesn’t count. Think she knows I tipped you about the mirror?

Weyland: No doubt. Didn’t you notice her aura when she looked at you?

Celeste: I am out of here.

Weyland: How can you abandon me, you coward? I thought we were friends.

Celeste: Morgan’s not exactly our Miss Brooks when she’s mad. You’re on your own, pal.

The Blessed Bean:

Weyland and Morgan are sitting at a bistro table, sipping their drinks and watching a three man band set up.

Weyland: I should’ve changed clothes before we came here.

Morgan (represses a shudder): Thank Gods you didn’t. Those corduroys you wear make you look like Redd Foxx on Sanford and Son.

Weyland: No, they make me look comfortable.

A woman comes up, pen and autograph book in hand. She’s smiling uncertainly.

Woman: Governor Corzine?

Weyland scowls and flips up the lapel of his blazer. Pinned underneath is a Vote for Forrester button. The woman walks away disappointed.

Morgan (smirking): Your concierge uniform must make you look like a politician.

Weyland grunts.

Morgan: And an adult would’ve been nicer to her.

Weyland: I’m nice from 9 to 5. It’s Miller time now.

Morgan: What happened to "I’m a kinder, gentler pooh bah now", Mr. Third Degree?

Weyland (suddenly looks stricken): I forgot. (Turns and looks around.) I’ll go over and apologize–

Morgan: Sit back down, you maniac, you’d only scare her. (The band starts tuning up.) Just remember to act human next time.

Weyland (cups his ear): What?

Band gets louder.

Morgan: Remember to be human next time!

Weyland: Hah?

Morgan (grabs his collar and pulls him to her): Just smile and nod when I talk to you.

Weyland: Yes dear.

After Wey settles back in his chair, Morgan smiles at him.

Morgan: You’re a total idiot, hon, you know that?

Weyland gives her a big toothy grin and an energetic nod.

Morgan: You have the personality of a pissed off porcupine, too.

Wey grins and nods again.

Morgan: And your whole family’s certifiable–

Thunder rumbles loudly overhead.

Weyland (frowning): What did you say about Mom?

Before Morgan can reply, a spotlight shines down on their table.

Band leader (amplified): Ladies and gentlemen, Governor John Corzine!

Gasps and applause from the audience. Wey & Morgan look at each other. Weyland shrugs and stands up to wave at the crowd.

Band leader: Take a bow, Governor.

Weyland (saluting them with his coffee mug): More taxes!

Complete, dead silence.

Weyland: Look at their eyes….

Morgan: I love you.

Weyland: I know. Hold ‘em off while I try for the door.

Morgan: You cowardly old rat bast–

Voice from the audience: That’s not the Governor! That’s Weyland Smith!

"Who?" "That loser?" "Looks like an old ass Woody Allen to me." "I thought he was already dead…."

Somebody kills the spotlight, and the band plays on. Weyland sits down and puts an arm around Morgan’s shoulders.

Weyland: Guess all’s well that ends.

Morgan (tries to pull away): Are you kidding? You nearly got us killed!

Weyland: You mad again?

Morgan: Yes!

Weyland: Well, so am I.

Morgan (incredulous): About what?

Weyland: Mad about you, baby.

Morgan (leans against him and purrs): Well, that’s different.

Weyland: You bet your sweet bippy it is.

***

author bio:

Weyland Smith is an eclectic witch and "senior" editor of Amethyst, Blackwell Coven’s e-mail news page. He lives in Mercer County New Jersey with his bright & beautiful partner Morgan and her two children. They may be reached at weylandsmith@verizon.net Wey is a firm believer in reincarnation–in his previous life he was a village idiot.

Tags: The Funnies, Weyland Smith

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