My Great New Catch Phrase

The other day I was just sitting around watching the old boob tube (as if anyone actually calls it that, am I right?) when I flip over to the food channel. That guy Emeril was making some kind of omlette. Or maybe it was steak. I'm no good with these things. But I'm sitting there watching him and I think to myself, Now THERE'S a man who has a catchphrase (BAM! and all that). I take a look around my tiny apartment: dirty clothes, empty pizza boxes, old news papers, a priceless antique gramophone. Disgusting, I think to myself. I say, Larry, you better clean yourself up or one of these days or it's YOU Emeril will be cooking. My eyes dart from the pair of underwear draped over my chair to the television screen. Just try it, Emeril I say outloud (but not too loud...that'd be weird, am I right?!). Emeril, yeah he's a cool customer alright...look at the way he's just talking to the audience and making that sandwich or that roast duck...whatever it is...if you didn't know better you wouldn't even know he was thinking about killing and serving you to his audience...Unless you clean yourself up, I think...no, that's not it...unless... Then it hits me: unless you get yourself a great new catch phrase!

I get up from the couch (alright, so it's not a traditional couch, but the milk crates are made out of a pretty resilient polymer and hold up well to repeat sittings) walk over to my kitchen cabinets, take a plate out, and smash it on the floor, watching the once loved Chicago Bears Super Bowl plate shatter into a million pieces. I raise my ams above my head and scream, "Touch down, Chicago!" Huh...just like that and I've got a catch phrase. That wasn't so hard, I think. I yell it again: "Touch down, Chicago!" Not bad...but not great either. I rub my chin, It does have a certain ring to it (a Super Bowl ring? LOL!), but it might get confusing since I a) do not live in or near Chicago and b) do not, in the course of screaming my catch phrase, mention which sports team I am referring to. Sure, common sense would lead the savvy audience to understand the connection betwixt "touch down" and Chicago...I mean, I'm not talking about the Bulls here, am I RIGHT?!?!? Heh...keep it cool Larry.

I put this one on the back burner and set about on a new catch phrase. Boy, only my first day on the job and already I've got one on the back burner! This was going to be easy.

Next I walk over to the clock I have on the wall above my television set. First I kick the TV, but it hurts my toe and I come to the conclusion that a TV is probably pretty hard to break. Besides, if I got my catch phrase out of the same TV that I watch Emeril on, it'd be pretty much like plagiarism. My eyes return to the clock and a shadow of doubt passes over my eyes and furrowed brow: But if I break it, I think, how will I know what time it is. JUST DO IT! a voice in my head cries out. Tossing caution to the wind, I leap up, snag the clock, and hurl it into the mirror in the hallway. "You're out of time!" I shriek. I run over to the clock, which is now in three pieces amidst a pile of more broken glass (albeit this glass is shiny) and yell it again, emhpasizing each word by kicking the clock: "YOU'RE--OUT--OF--TIME!" (I must admit I get a little tangled up with the contractive "you are" and the whole kicking scheme...do I kick once because it is now one word, or do I kick it twice because it is standing in place of two? Just a few of the important questions I now have to live with as the owner of a catch phrase.) I try it again, thrusting my finger in the air to puncuate the phrase instead of kicking, but I still feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

When I calm down a bit and my breathing returns to normal I stand in my quivering apartment and just listen. For what, you ask? For anything. For a sign. For the inspiration I need to create the big one. The big one? you say. Yeah, I respond cooly. But, Larry, you persist, you've already got two great catch phrases, they're phenomenal! HUGE! I just shrug it off. Yeah, they're okay I guess. I feebly pick up a novelty ice cube with a fly in it that I bought myself a few weeks ago and toss it to the ground. It takes two pathetic, clattering bounces before coming to a rest. "Waiter, you're out of time...bam..." I mumble. I think about maybe getting out of the apartment, going to see a movie, or going out for a drink, but the thought of mindless entertainment seems trite after all this self-discovery.

I wander around the apartment aimlessly, like a sheep without a shephard. Why are you doing this to me God? I cry out. I pause, evaluating what I'd just said. Nah, it'd never work...maybe for, you know, poor people, but it just doesn't fit me. I mean look at me, I've got it all: a TV, a fully stocked fridge, a couple of novelty items...a floor lamp. Suddenly my eyes shoot over to the floor lamp near the window of my ninth story apartment. That's it! That's the sign I was looking for. Nervously, I approach the lamp with a trembling hand, like I'm Indian Jones taking that bag of gold or something (was it gold? I missed the first few minutes of the movie...didn't see the end either). I appraise the lamp for a moment or two, trying to really feel it out. After a moment of careful consideration, I throw back the curtains, open up the window, and, yanking the cord from the wall, hurl the lamp out into the street below triumphantly. I watch and wait as my lamp hurtles towards the earth, gaining speed, eyeing the pedestrians below as the Ikea Nrsturmiggher I bought for $10 climbes closer and closer to terminal velocity. I wonder what my new catch phrase will be, I ponder and I feel like a little boy on Christmas day! The lamp looks like an angel I think to myself, but my reverie is interrupted as it crashes violently right into a woman walking her dog. Man what a sound it made! For a moment I am stunned by the sight of what appears to be brain matter on the side walk...the only sounds coming up from the street seem to be silence and the woman's dog barking.

People begin running towards her and cars are stopping in the middle of the street at odd angles to investigate. People are screaming now. For a moment I lose myself in all the commotion before I realize that I'm letting my catch phrase slip through my fingers. I quickly regroup and focus on the shattered lamp below. Before my mind has a chance to fully focus, I feel a great white light coming over me and I belt out, "Who's your daddy?!" I catch myself and quickly suck in my breath. I hold it and I wait. Is it here? Has it really come? I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to let the beautiful bird escape its cage. Who eees your daddy. It's perfect! It's classic, but with enough of a contemporary feel as to not bore the kids. Plus, it's pretty sassy! Is it sexual, or is it familial? Ah, it works on so many levels! A multi-tiered catch phrase? Not even Emeril has a multi-faceted, multi-textural saying! Bam? What's that? Nothing, that's what. It's over before it's begun. But "Who's your daddy?" Now that's something to write home about!

I lean out the window and realize that in my elation, I had forgotten all about the lamp and the woman. I forgot the thank the lamp! I hastily put on my coat and run down stairs and out the vestibule. I push through the crowd, wretch at the sight of more brain matter, pull a jagged shard of lamp out of the woman's back, and scream at my former lighting fixture: "WHO'S YOUR DADDY!" For a new twist (world premiere!) I twirl as I say it and it feels g-r-e-a-t. I run up to a woman in the crowd and scream it again: Who's your daddy?!" But wait--just there--something wasn't right. I take a swing at the woman's head but am restrained by a man in the crowd. I turn on him quickly, "Who's your daddy?!" I scream again. It--no! it cannot be! Have I been deceived? What seemed so perfect just a moment ago has now lost its eternal luster! Just as I'm about to yell it again, a police officer tackles me to the ground and I feel cold metal wrap around my wrists. I try to bite his hand as it passes close to my face.

"Come on, buddy," he says, jamming his batallion into my rib cage, "We're going downtown." That's it! All this time and I was so blind to the simple reality of it all! "We're going downtown!" I shout. I shout it to anyone who will listen, which at this point includes a few camera crews from the local news stations. I scream it and I scream it and as they shove me in the back of the police cruiser, I begin laughing uncontrollably. "Get him outta here," one of the bigger cops says to the first cop. Get him outta here, indeed.