Like the clumsy sprawl of a polluted city, the dirty dishes grow out of my sink and spread all across my counter. It fills my kitchen with the faint aroma of food cooked wrong.

The desk I used to keep so neat is disappearing now, under kept shopping receipts, unopened mail and scribbled notes that I am not sure I have any use for now.

I haven't balanced my checkbook in nearly two weeks. I still have money in the bank. I just have no idea how much, or how little. Most times, I don't even care. There always seems to be enough.

The answering machine on my telephone has 27 blinking new messages I've not bothered to listen to. It started about 11 days ago. I got home from work and there were 6 messages there. My finger went to the "m/box1" button, but I never pushed it. I wanted nothing more with the outside world that day.

The next day, there were 4 new messages. The next day, 3 more . . . and so on. It seems like a small army is gathering inside my phone's message box, just waiting for me to push that button and let them invade. But no. They’re all stuck in the box until King Brian decides to hear them.

I tell people to e-mail me if they want a prompt reply. Do they listen?

I've always guarded my home telephone number. Never in my life have I enjoyed being interrupted at anything by the ringing of a phone. I have a cell phone but almost never use it, except for when I'm working far away from my office. Even then, I forget it sometimes, or I forget to recharge the battery.

I need to do my laundry. Then again, I was telling myself this last week. It's no wonder I went to work today looking more or less like a rodeo clown — it's because I'm wearing clothes I forgot I even had.

Don't laugh. This is true: Four months ago, I bought myself a little book of self-motivational phrases and passages. I never read it, and now I can't find it.

Oh! Here’s some news: I got a haircut a few days ago. But the girl only trimmed a bit off the ends, because she insists I look horrible with too-short hair. I insist I look quite bad with too-long hair. But she was holding the scissors, so she had all the power in that situation.

You want to see a picture, don’t you?  Nah. Later.  Right now, I’m gazing at the rooms around me and I’m wondering: Can a person take another nap, in his dreams, while he’s already taking a nap?  Oh, well ...

Most people spend all their days preparing themselves, spiritually, for the afterlife. A few of us exist as if we're already there.

Well, everybody. I've had so much fun tonight that I've lost track of the time. But I see Mr. Floppy Socks yawning over there, so that can only mean . . . yes, I'm sorry but it can only mean . . . the end of another broadcast day. That means all the puppets go back into the bottom drawer to dream their cottony dreams. Ahhhhhhh . . . how cozy.

As always, I want to thank everybody for listening to tonight's program. And I remind those of you out there who love our show: listening is not enough. Please, please, please patronize our sponsors. Without them, this show could not stay on the air and I would have a lot of hungry puppets to worry about (yes, Bonkers, even you!). So, kids, the next time your mom or your dad complains of tired feet from walking all around the amusement park with you, by all means, recommend Archalite Foot Powder.

That's right: *Ar-cha-lite Foot Powder.* Can you say it? Practice saying it, kids, and then say it to as many grownups as you can. Because if Archalite can't sell the foot powder, they're going to cancel my show and bury me in it.

I want to give special thanks to Mr. Sassy Pants for stopping by the studio and chatting with us tonight. Also, let's give one final shout-out to The Coral Singers for graciously coming on and performing their song, "Dipsy Bird." It's sure to be a hit, so *hit* those record stores and pick up their single. And while you're there, help yourself to some foot powder, but only if it's Archalite Foot Powder.

Congratulations to Artie Gaskill of Tottenham, Georgia for (at last) being our third caller and winning the free four-slice toaster. Now, you can make twice as much toast, and in HALF the time. Mr. Floppy Socks loves his toaster, don't you? Hey, Flop! Wake up!

As usual, before signing off, I'd like to remind our listeners that you can get a full transcript of tonight's show by sending (money) and a self-addressed, stamped envelope to:

The Brian and Bonkers Show
c/o Last Light Productions
1221 Ridgecrest Avenue
Chicago, IL. 61330-0777

Make sure to specify program No. 718 from April 28, 2006 for a transcript of tonight's show, or we just might send you the wrong one (like the one when Bonkers accidentally caught on fire, hehe . . .). So remember to SPECIFY.

And one more thing: Be nice to your grandparents. They can't help it if they look funny when they're chewing food.

Ok, folks. Goodnight. Here is our national anthem . . .

Your Alabama accent inspires me
To imagine us together in a movie,
Me as a rebel and you as my lover,
Bigger than life and in technicolor.
In the final scene, cross your lap I will die,
Yearning for but one kiss.
But, Vandy, what a shame,
It can never be like this.

A look on your face can change my mind
About the handsome wrecks you left behind;
A trail of broken hearts all the way to Dixie.
A man on your mind is a man at your mercy.
Here I am on my knees at the Altar of You
Still asking for that kiss.
Vandy, with your perfumed lace,
Why do you treat me like this?

If I could strum a guitar I’d find a great field
And serenade the sky.
If I could write books there’d be scripture and verse
For the color of your eyes.
If I had a lot of money I’d buy myself a wife and
Pretend that she was you.
Wanna know, Vandy, what else I’d do?

If you were the kitten and I were the wolf
I’d chase you across the plantation.
On a rainy southern night you’d shed all
And learn to like temptation.
Eyes glimmering in the dark, hungry in my blood,
Waiting for you off in the trees,
I’d lick at the moon and savor the smell
Of your unshackled virginity.

What If We Had Kissed?

That's the question tonight, the one I'm never going to answer. The romantic part of me — the part I hardly listen to anymore — keeps telling me a kiss would have changed everything. If I'd kissed you then, made it clearer how I felt, it wouldn't be like it is now. I'd have you instead of this dull, compelling ache.

One kiss. There's not much to it, really. And after the first one, all the others come so naturally . . . but that first kiss needs a moment. It needs a man who is sure of what he wants and has decided he's ready to have it. If he hesitates, he might lose the only chance he had with the only person he ever wanted. When the moment came for me, I hesitated. I played it cool.

Now it's gone; the moment, the kiss, the possibility . . . and only heaven knows what else. You took it all with you when you slipped away.

I'm a proud man. I shouldn't dwell on this, but I know it will dwell on me. I'll drag myself across as many days as I must until this longing turns itself into something better. I won't reach for the phone. I won't even whisper your name. I'll be the rock in the fire that consumes the wood, and I'll be the rock after the fire is gone. I am a proud, stupid man.

I leave these words for whoever will pick them up and carry them along. You, you, you . . . you won't ever know I wrote them for you. Nobody will know. But all who read this will feel what I'm feeling now: When I lose my sleep at night, it's only you that I miss.

What if we had kissed?

Would my blog be more interesting if I revealed more of myself here?

Everybody likes a soap opera.  I could sure give you the drama if I wanted to. 

I don't want to.

But I understand — it's a better experience for the reader who feels drawn in to a blogger's world.  The ups and downs.  The daily struggle.  The masterpieces we furiously dash out when we forget the meds and take caffeine instead.  Step right this way, right down the hall .... behold the bloggist in all his (or her) tortured glory.  Comment.  Lend an encouraging voice — before the delicate thing kills itself.

I make sarcasm, but I guess that sort of blogger is a bit more compelling than reading a 'writeur' who admits to nothing but the occasional flight of fancy.  Like, yeah, we got nothing better to do than to scroll through all of so-and-so's post-grad creative writing exercises.  There's no opportunity for empathy, only applause.  It takes a pretty ardent fan of literature to surf blogs in search of good writing, just for writing's sake.

There's another sort of blogger — the commentarian, the person who watches the world around him or her and then rushes to the keyboard to hammer out his or her opinion about what's going on.  There seems to be more of it written about American Idol than American policy — but if people read it, people read it.  Nobody brings in the readers like a commentarian, because a GOOD one can be a hell of a lot sharper than your local newspaper columnist, refreshingly less egotistical than Bill O'Reilly and, best of all, readers can leave comments and actually interact with the writer as well as with others who've commented.

And, finally, there are the two least interesting types of bloggers, as far as I am concerned.  There is the expert, who will give you all the information you ever (or never) wanted about a particular topic/subject and bore readers into an early grave.  And there is the diarist, who is driven to chronicle every meaningless event of his or her hum-drum life, rarely stopping to reflect on where or who they actually are.

I haven't only seen them all — I've been them all.  Lately, I've settled on being the 'writeur' because I LOVE to write, but I hate feeling like I must write a certain way, about a certain topic or for certain kinds of people.  I don't give too much of myself away in a blog, because I've learned that there are some crazy folks out there, people who've been sitting at the table a lot longer than I have, who are better at dealing in the games people play online.

I can only write about myself from a safe distance, and I do it on my own terms.  That is, I'm not trying to let anybody inside of me, and I'm not hoping to get anybody on my trail, sniffing the grass for fresh emotional footprints.  I do want you to know I'm human, that I am a real man.  I laugh, cry, yawn, work, sleep, love, fuck and pay bills just like everybody else.  I'm not above you or below you, I'm right here with you.  It's where I have to be, or else all of my writing would be ridiculous.

Don't try to get inside of me.  But, you know .... if my writing gets inside of you, that's perfectly ok with me.