“It’s the best time of year,” one burly ex football dude proclaimed at my daughter’s soccer practice. I thought I saw a tiny tear of happiness roll down his cheek.

I found a few statistics. 40 million men watch football every week. On average, fans watch ten hours of football a week.

Football sells recliners and big screen TVS. Satellite TV and Digital Recorders. Chips and Beers. Clothing. Headgear including fake yellow braids and big pieces of plastic cheese. Face paint. And beer. Footballs. Coolers. And beer.

In my house, we have all of this and more. We even have a cookbook featuring recipes by football players.

Every September, no make that August (I forgot about preseason), I ask myself the question. And I ask it again every time I hear the Monday Night Football song.

Terri, are you ready for some football?

My answers.
Do I have a choice?
In small quantities.
If all my chores are done.
If the score is close.
If there’s a cute quarterback.
If my husband whipped up something tasty out of that football cookbook.
If I can sit in his recliner and HE brings me a beer.

Then yeah, bring it on baby!

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.” Hope Tooley folded her hands and bowed her head. She shifted her weight to relieve the pressure on her knees and made a mental note to replace the red velvet padding on the bench. Monty used to do it every couple of years. She’d have to hire someone this time around. 

She raised her eyes to the ornate gold crucifix positioned over the small altar. An image of her husband lounging on a couch surrounded by young women dressed in I dream of Jeannie get-ups flashed in her mind. “Hope you’re enjoying yourself up there, buster.” Of course God wouldn’t allow that type of hedonism in heaven, but then again, Monty had a way of getting what he wanted. No matter, Monty was God’s problem now.

Hope leaned forward and parted a set of black curtains hanging from the bottom of the altar. A brown mini-fridge sat tucked under a single shelf. She grabbed a silver chalice from the alter and opened the fridge door. Eight bottles of Holy City Chianti chilled inside. A case shipped to the house once a month. The wine came from an Italian vineyard purportedly blessed by his holy eminence himself.

She poured herself a full glass from an open bottle and gently shut the door and closed the curtains. With one hand, she grabbed the rail and pulled herself to a standing position, careful not to spill a drop of Holy City on the white bedroom carpet. It was time to make her rounds.

 On the roof deck, the clear night sky sparkled with tiny lights. Hope adjusted the lens on the telescope and removed a digital voice recorder from the pocket of her sweater. She placed it next to the chalice on a wrought iron table painted sun flower yellow. A black leather diary bearing a silver lock emerged from her other pocket. She opened it using a key hanging from her neck and began reviewing her notes.

 CAV Campaign to rid the town of the evil presence of Maddy Harper and her house of hell, The Double Buzz.

Allegations

1. The Double Buzz is a hotbed for communist/anti-George W. Bush activism. Example: Political Debate Night, 2 for 1 special on Tuesdays.

2. The Double Buzz is a hotbed for radical religious debates. Example: World Religion Exploration, 2 for 1 special on Sundays.

 3. Proprietor may have ties to WICA. Example: “Witch’s Brew” beer label. Note: Proprietor may be closet lesbian as well. Wears t-shirts with the following expressions: Not Interested, Don’t Even Think About It, and Exempt From Men.

 4. The atmosphere at the Double Buzz encourages promiscuity. Examples: a) Karaoke night on Thirsty Thursdays, Buy 2 get 1 free and; b) “Hell Yeah You Can Dance!” on Friday Nights. Free beer with $5 cover.

 Hope pursed her lips and smoothed the back of her bun. That woman and her establishment were sullying the town of Redemption. As the President of Citizens Against Vice(CAV), it was her job to collect evidence substantiating every allegation. According to Bernard, getting rid of Maddy Harper and her reprehensible establishment would position Hope as the town’s savior. He said such heroic actions might even warrant a statue in the town’s square.

Her sister would have a fit. She’d have to stop the naughty hand gestures then. Flipping off the town’s savior would look unseemly.

Success would place Bernard at her feet. Eternally grateful, a two, maybe three carat diamond in hand, he would at last propose. She’d already bought a white peignoir and matching dressing gown for their honeymoon in Rome. Perhaps she should petition for an audience with his Holiness? Father Thomas would surely write a letter of recommendation.

Hope took a sip of wine and turned the telescope five degrees to the left. She pressed the record button on the recorder and peered through the lens.

“Oh my word.” The recorder dropped from her hands.

Pitches, Hooks, and Loglines, Oh why! 

Because some people have short attention spans.

Because some people want to be intrigued before they commit.

Because some people don’t have the time to read your book, your synopsis, or even your cover letter.

 What makes a good pitch, hook, and logline?

Verbs and nouns that pack a punch, conflict, humor, drama, and ununsual but relatable plots aka HIGH CONCEPT plots. 

What is a HIGH CONCEPT plot? A story that appeals to a lot of people.

Here are some examples of pitches, hooks, and loglines.

United by a history they cannot discuss, yet starkly alone in their private struggles, father and son confront their demons and one another in a stand-off that will change them both forever. Poles Apart by Audrey RL Wyatt

Long-suffering sports widow is repeatedly thwarted in her unconventional attempts to murder the armchair jock husband she may still love. To Kill An Armchair Husband, a dark comedy by me, Terri Weeding

And . . . here’s my new favorite logline.  A rancher tries to stop king-sized, hopped-up carnivorous rabbits as they roar through Arizona.  Night of Lepus, movie  

 Notice the use of strong adjectives like king-sized and hopped-up. And ”roared”, well, can’t get much more powerful than that for a verb.

As for an unusual but relatable plotline . . . 

I live in Arizona so I can testify to the existence of giant-sized, hopped-up, carnivorous bunnies.

1. Plop down in front of your computer and start pounding out words. Who cares if the words sound stupid! If you don’t read them you won’t know they’re stupid.  Besides, stupid today can look like genius tomorrow and yeah, well, it works the other way too. The important thing is NEVER EVER read your fragile virgin words immediately after you’ve let them loose.

Helpful Hint: Pretend that you are a court reporter and your job is to report/type the words you hear in your head. You do hear words, people speaking, that kind of think, don’t you? As a court reporter, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO CHANGE THE WORDS, NOT EVEN ONE TINY WORD, OR YOU WILL BE FIRED!  Let me be clear. I mean leave the mistakes. Leave the shoddy punctuation. Leave the angry words and the naughty words and the embarrassing grammar.

2. Write until you reach the goal you set for yourself. Hello! You did set a goal, right?  Some writer folk use a time-limit, some like a word count, some a page count.  DON’T set an obnoxiously huge goal that will be impossible to attain. There’s a term for this kind of person. Self-Sabatoger!

DO set a baby goal that you can feel good about cause you will be able to accomplish your goal in 20 minutes, no problem. When you are finished hit save and walk away. Walk away. Walk away.

3. I am of the opinion that uninhibited first draft writing requires a chaser to relieve the stress of  . . . uninhibited first draft writing.  I favor dancing to the funky little tune, ”Get up offa that thing” by James Brown  http://www.youtube.com/embed/0ROzGihgCj8

If you’re going to imitate me, remember, absolutely no editing, no analysis, no mirrors for goodness sake! Just feel the music and move it!

My Middle Name 

 My name is Sharon G. Broyer. In case you don’t figure it out from what I’m about to tell you, the middle initial really stands for “Gullible.” I’m the kind of person who just doesn’t expect people to snow me, which makes it all the easier for them to do it, over and over again…

There was the time my sister-in-law visited us while my husband happened to be sleeping on the couch, sans shoes. “Don’t sit there,” I whispered as she was about to sit in the open spot next to his feet. “His feet really stink.” That night, as I rested my head on my pillow, I noticed an odd odor. Hubby started to chuckle. I had no clue he’d overheard me, and to get his revenge he’d stuffed my pillowcase with his dirty socks. (Two points hubby; Shari-zero, like her I.Q.)

And then there was the trip to Niagara Falls and its attractions, one of which was a wax museum. Outside the entrance was a life-size figure of Frankenstein. Feeling playful, I reached up to stroke his cheek, and said, “Hello there, handsome!” When he stiffly raised his hands and replied, “Hello beautiful, how ‘bout a hug?”I screamed and bolted down the sidewalk. (The bystander with camera gets all the credits, probably on America’s Funniest.)

Once I was called to assist a street fair magician because I looked “like the adventuresome type” (looked like a sucker was more like it). He’d been manipulating scarves and producing flowers, birds, etc. He held a long one up and said, “Don’t get the wrong idea, but I need to stuff this down the front of your shirt. Are you game?” Clueless me, I said, “Yes.” “Now, I want you to put your forehead on mine and look into my eyes while I tell you a joke, and when I’m done, you pull one end of this scarf and I’ll pull the other on the count of three, okay?” “Okay.” The joke was told, the count was given, and the scarf was pulled. The audience roared as a bra popped out, and I reeled in embarrassed astonishment. (Turned out it wasn’t my bra, just one about my size—small—like my brain.)

And the time the scarecrow sitting in a chair outside the home my little grandson and I approached while trick-or-treating got up and opened the door for us, and I screamed bloody murder making my grandson and the guy in the costume laugh (you’d a thunk I’d gotten wise after ole Frankie, but no-o, not this naïve nitwit).

A last example: A musician friend of mine gave a concert and I attended. I felt comfortable enough with him to heckle him playfully from the audience. After zinging him mildly a few times, he decided enough was enough. “Shari,” he said, “did you know ‘gullible’ isn’t in the dictionary?” “It isn’t?” came the automatic response.  ZING! ZING!

So now you know why my middle name really isn’t Gayle.

Shari Broyer has been writing since childhood. Her earliest award: a 1st place trophy for Creative Writing at 8th grade graduation. Formerly: Editor in Chief of KSU Ashtabula’s Kaleidoscope; Facilitator, writers group, Barnes and Noble, High Point, NC; host of Writer’s Digest World’s Largest Writing Workshop; published in various literary anthologies; top 100 winner, Writer’s Digest 2000 competition–Inspirational category, etc. Currently, she facilitates Writers Roundtable at Changing Hands Bookstore in Mesa, AZ. Her goal: #1 New York Times best-selling author. Her first novel, Ether Man, a paranormal romantic comedy, is in simultaneous submission to several agents.  Check her out at:  http://www.fanstory.com/shariannegaylee

I’ve been acknowledge as hilarious by someone other than my mom and dad.

I’ve been RECOGNIZED as an author of  humorous words on Google’s # 1  ranked site for humor writers http://www.humorwriters.org – a site which happens to be dedicated to my top female humor hero, Erma Bombeck.

It’s a glorious month for this humor writer. Every morning, I do a little celebration dance and sing myself a little cheer (with pom-poms) that goes like this, “Go Terri, Go Terri, Go Terri . . . .”

Enough about me.  Let’s talk about Erma Bombeck, a pioneer of every day humor.

Erma wrote for homemakers. For those unfamiliar with the term, homemakers are the ancestors of stay-at-home moms.  Back in the day, homemakers sewed clothing for their children and cooked for their families in harvest gold kitchens and cleaned . . . REALLY cleaned, like they got down on their knees and scrubbed the kitchen floor EVERY SINGLE DAY. 

Homemakers hosted tupperware and fondue parties. They played charades and disco danced while shamelessly drinking cheap pink wine during the day. And no one thought anything of it.

But I digress.

Erma Bombeck was all about finding the funny in every day suburban life.  She found humor in housework and children and, of course, my favorite fodder – - husbands.

Erma wrote hundreds of columns and several books with entertaining titles like The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank and Family — The Ties That Bind . . . and Gag.  Although she has passed on, Erma is still vastly popular today, in fact, an online museum exists in her honor and more than 100.000 people visit it every year. Check it out at  http://www.ermamuseum.org/home.asp

A legacy of laughter is wonderful gift.

Thank you, Erma.

 Diary page entries during a week long bout of acute bronchitis.

I’ve fallen ill. My strength is drained by bone-wracking coughing. Bizarre questions/scenarios/fantasies plague me night and day. I fear for my sanity. Or is the codeine-laced cough syrup my doctor prescribed to blame?

When my voice returns, I’m going to practice yodeling like that guy in the Ricola commercial. I should be able to do it as I’ve consumed twenty Ricola cough drops in the last 4 days.

A foot thumping sneeze combined with a thunderous hacking cough attack results in a Depends moment. I can sink no lower. I must keep my bladder empty even if it means crawling to the bathroom every 1/2 hour.

Why does my child gaze at me with faintly disguised repulsion when I croak at her to kindly bring me a cup of soup? HOW MANY TIMES did I nurse her back from the brink of death?

I have an uncontrollable urge to comb out my mucky nose hair with an itty bitty comb. I wonder if there are any Polly Pocket hair utensils around the house?

Five. The number of times the sound of ogre-like snoring woke me.  Alas, I was/am the culprit. I belong on Shrek now. Mucus. Swollen nose. Skin tinged with green. I’m transforming.

Must stop the neighborhood dogs from barking or I will surely go mad. If only I possessed the strength to climb the tallest tree in our yard, a rifle loaded with  . . . tranquilizers strapped to my back. I’ll start with the little dogs first, for they possess the shrillest barks.

Harry –  I had my dream again. Where I’m making love and the Olympic judges are watching. I’ve nailed the compulsories, so this is it. The finals. I get a 9.8 from the Canadian. I get a perfect 10 from the American. And my mother, disguised as an East German judge, gives me a 5.6. Must have been the dismount.

Yeah, I guess we could call this 1989 movie an oldie (consider the East German reference) but it’s far more than just a goodie. It’s hysterical. As I say repeatedly, humor is all about the dialogue and Ms. Ephron sure can write it.

The flick is a must for those who love romantic comedies. The screenplay is a must for those who want to write light humor.

Let’s not forget about the infamous scene in the diner when Sally um, fakes, um, well, you either know what I’m talking about or you don’t.

Psst!  That scene I’m talking about? I think it’s posted on Youtube. 

No . . . I’m not giving you a link. Go find it yourself!

More of my favorite excerpts from my favorite comedies next week.

Don’t you just love to laugh?

Yep. I’m not kidding. CORVETTE BARBIE!

I know. I know. I was flabbergasted as well.

Now, let me tell you about her, uh, get-up.

Vinyl dress slit up up to her….

V neck zipper top showing plenty of ….

Brassy Blonde dye job with a good INCH (measurements are to Barbie scale) of brown roots showing.

On her feet, Black WORKBOOTS with red socks peeking out the top.

Lipstick the color of dried blood. WAY, WAY too much eye make-up.

Oversized NASCAR flag earrings for pete’s sake!

Mother of Pearl! I was surprised she wasn’t chugging down a trophy filled with champagne!

How on earth did this upstart get in?

I considered the possibilities and the only clue. Fortunately, it was a big one.

The culprit had parked a mini yellow Matchbox Corvette in front of her display box.

The angle park job was the dead give away. The culprit? None other than my husband.

A million questions ran through my mind. Why didn’t he tell me he added another doll to my daughter’s collection? Did he think I wouldn’t notice? And, what was with the matchbox car?

I asked a couple of the questions but got the standard replies, “I don’t know. I forgot about it. It’s no big deal.”

I have since relocated Corvette Barbie. She now resides on a shelf  in my husband’s billards room surrounded by multiple Matchbox Corvettes and adjacent to a figurine of Slash, the infamous guitar player formerly of Guns and Roses.

I think she’ll have much more fun with Slash than a bunch of uptight, overdressed, couture Barbies. Don’t you?