“See, I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to decide what year to set my new story in. I know I want it set in the early 1900’s but I need to pinpoint what year.”
“So, just pick a year.”
“That’s what I’m doing! I have listed a year on each piece of paper. Now I’m going to ball each slip up and then draw one. Whichever ball I pick, that’s the year of my story.”
“Ooooh no…don’t ruin the magic for me.”
*I toss the tiny paper balls in a bowl, swirl them around like hot potatoes and, finally, pull one out*
I was never a Disney kid. Something about Mickey creeped me out. I think it was his laugh. That was the laugh of a serial killer. And Goofy…what the hell was that? A talking dog that had a dog as a pet? How messed up was that?
And don’t get me started on the murderous intentions in Peter Pan. Those mermaids straight up wanted to kill Wendy.
How many of y’all repressed that part of the cartoon?
I was a Warner Brothers kid. I loved Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Yosemite Sam, and all those crazy dudes.
Seriously. This is how I learned opera. And damn that rabbit could wear a dress.
As much as I loved Warner Brothers cartoons and their dry sense of humour, I have to admit that, looking back, I have to blame them as the root of most of my anxieties.
Do you remember the cartoon where Sylvester the cat wakes up to find that his family has left to go on vacation?
He’s left all alone. Kinda like that psycho rich white kid in that Christmas movie I refuse to watch.
Smug ass punk.
And then the cat has an anxiety attack realizing that there is no food in the kitchen except for canned cat food.
CANNED. CAT. FOOD.
For the next five minutes, Sylvester tries to open the cans. Explosions. Anvils. All the stuff.
And then a mouse comes out of the wall and twirls a can opener.
The chase begins. Cat pursues mouse and after much shenanigans, the cat comes out victorious with the can opener. He is saved from starvation!
BUT as Sylvester goes into the kitchen he sees that the cabinets are padlocked shut.
He hears a taunting whistle from behind him.
He turns to see a mouse, holding a key, and then he disappears into the wall.
Sylvester falls into a puddle, crying, starvation just around the corner.
Sunday morning, slightly hung over and I’m in the shower. I hear a familiar voice inside my head.
Muse: Pathos is the bedrock of comedy.
Me, rubbing conditioner in my hair: Uh huh.
Muse: And that’s why Call Me Kat is doomed to failure.
Me: I haven’t watched it. Have you?
Muse: Don’t need to. All the evidence is right there in the trailer. Awkward but lovable girl quits her job and starts to live her dream of running a cat cafe…shenanigans ensue. Where is the conflict? Where is the sadness? In a comedy, you need to torture your main character probably even more than in a drama. The only difference is that in comedy, you’re twisting the screws for laughs.
Me: But Call Me Kat is basically a rip off of Miranda and that show was a blast. How could it go wrong?
Muse: True, Miranda was good but do you remember when you stopped watching?
Me: Somewhere in the third season. It wasn’t funny anymore.
Muse: And that’s because Miranda was happy. She got her dream beau. Before that her comedy was based on how large, awkward, and socially inept she was. Her friends ridicule her and every adventure is a set up for humiliation. It was hilarious!
Me: Huh.
Muse: And this Kat show is starting at Miranda Third Season.
Nikki Nelson-Hicks 