Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful Jesuit!

10:35pm-12:16am: He sinks into the dusty, secondhand chair, crippled with a writer's block he was certain wasn't supposed to set in until he'd had a least one work of genius. Checks testicles for lumps. Cancer would be a good excuse.

12:17am: He rises, deciding now is the time to finally fix that clogged bathroom sink. He grabs the bottle of Drano from the supply cabinet, then watches with satisfaction as the mucusy liquid glugs its way down the hole. Might as well scrub the mirrors and the tile, while we're at it.

12:56am: He returns to his writing chair, a pleasant dancing sensation in his fingertipsietoenailskullhairs, thanks to a lack of ventilation in the bathroom.

1:15am: In a fit of chemical ecstasy (Wordsworth defined poetry as the "spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings) he writes, writes, writes - ideas flowing from his fingertips like a milk jug knocked over from the table. This is it. This is the script that will change everything.

1:34am: He realizes he's outlined a film almost identical to Rob Schneider's Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigalo.

1:35am: He reaches for the bottle of Drano.