That isn't funny, at all

Spider

Writing is rare before 10 PM. Nothing productive is likely after 10 PM either; writers, awaiting the next great idea, may be doing something else, something which, decidedly, is not writing.

I had been watching the ‘Tonight Show’, and eating my son’s Cocoa Puffs because he was sleeping and couldn’t complain about it.

A comedian was the first guest, and he was giving an apology for having made an unpopular comment about gays. Something in his manner suggested that he might be gay, himself, though I didn’t care much either way. My attention wandering, I saw something moving on the ceiling over the couch on which I often sleep when I pass out from writing, or from doing something which, decidedly, is not writing.

It was a spider. He was a slight, pale fellow, albino perhaps, and I wondered if he might be gay, like the guy on TV. Then I realized I’d have to kill him. I’d have to engage in an act of violence against gays, against arachnids, and possibly even against albinos as well. I wondered if I’d get to go on television to publicly apologize. Secretly, we all wish our fifteen minutes of fame. How it occurs is of less importance than when. We simply wish that it occur before fate smooshes us with its rolled up magazine.

How could I sleep with a gay, albino spider crawling around? Who knows what crevices upon my person he might wish to explore as I slept? He couldn’t be trusted, and had to be eliminated. One eye watched the gay spider while the other scanned the room for potential weapons.

As a martial artist, I'm trained to use anything as a weapon, though all I had within reach was a laptop computer and a half-empty box of Cocoa Puffs. I belched a loud, sugary-chocolate warning-burp at the spider while I continued to formulate a plan of attack. The spider fled, and I immediately came to regret the burp.

Now he’s nowhere to be found. I haven’t been able to sleep in days. Instead, I’m writing about a damned spider. Who has their fifteen minutes of fame now?