by Mentally Philly…
I always wanted to be a brain surgeon. Who wouldn’t? Brain surgeons make tons of dough. They live in mansions and have beautiful wives. They are in essence, rock stars.
Wanting to be a brain surgeon is one thing, becoming one is quite another. When I discovered how much hard work it would take to actually become a brain surgeon—not to mention how expensive it would be—I decided against it. The truth is, to be a brain surgeon you have to be really smart, which I am not.
So I became a writer instead. Why not? The world is full of writers, just like India is full of poets. Everyone’s a writer. Right? Besides, becoming a writer is cheap. In the old days, all you needed was a pencil and paper. Then a typewriter. Nowadays, all you need is access to a computer. What I’m saying is it’s free. Not virtually free; literally free.
So I decided I’d write a novel. What a job! It kept my mother off my back, and whenever anyone asked me what I was doing, I’d tell them I was writing a novel. When I was done, I knew all I had to do was post it on that internet site, and I’d officially be a writer.
All that changed one day when I when I heard about the new RONCO, at-home, do-it-yourself, brain surgery kit. It was just $49.95 and I could pay in four installments. Finally, my time had come. Now, all I needed was my first patient.
Luckily, it wasn’t long until someone close to me needed brain surgery. It was my mom, and boy did she need it bad. The doctors told her she had a brain tumor the size of a golf ball. Might as well have been a basketball. Mother didn’t have the money to pay for brain surgery. Luckily, help was on the way.
I got my big chance one night while we were at the dinner table. Mother started having a seizure and I knew it was my time to play the hero. So I grabbed my trusty RONCO, at-home, do-it-yourself, brain surgery kit and in short order had mother’s skull cracked wide open.
In no time, there was blood everywhere. Mother’s brains were all over the table like so much macaroni and I don’t have to tell you, the surgery was not a success.
My first thoughts were, I was going to get my money back. This thing didn’t work. And what the man on TV told me wasn’t true. It’s not that easy being a brain surgeon. It’s not like spray-painting hair on the back of your head.
So I decided I’d just go back to being a writer, because everyone’s a writer. Right? Why not?
Incidentally, I never did find that brain tumor. Fucking doctors. You just can’t trust ‘em.
*There’s this story that’s been around as long as I can remember, that if you had a room with one hundred people in it and asked them how many of them are writers, ninety-nine of them would raise their hands. But if you asked them how many of them are brain surgeons, at best, one might raise his hand. Moral to the story: everyone thinks he or she is a writer, but no one has any delusions about being a brain surgeon.
About the Author
Philip Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. His first novel, You Lucky Bastard, is represented by New York Literary Agent Jan Kardys. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas. Find out more about Loyd at http://PhilipLoyd.com
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