Willoughby: It’s about freakin’ time.

 E.J.: Watch it, mister!

W: Do you have any idea what I’ve been through the last few weeks?

E.J.: I can hardly wait to hear. 

W: You’ve been M.I.A. for weeks. Do you know who people come to you when you go missing? ME! You’ve severely cut into my nap time.

E.J.: Wow. I’ll cry all night. What did you tell them?

W: That you were not feeding me and to please send help.

E.J.: Very funny. Well, I don’t know what to say. I have writer’s block.  

W: You have to be writing to have writer’s block.

E.J.: Everything I want to write about could get me fired or run outta town.

W: We live in Los Angeles. What could you possibly say that would get us exiled from the city responsible for Californication and Kathy Griffin? 

E.J.: First of all, I’m installing parental controls on the cable box before I leave for work in the morning. And P.S…we’re moving back to Texas. But that’s another story. Until we do, can I just point out to you that I work for a conservative private school, live in an uber-conservative home, and have surrounded myself with friends who would short circuit if they knew what I really want to talk about?

W: Yikes. What do you really want to talk about?

E.J.: Well, at our administration birthday luncheon last week, it was Brazilian waxing, what kind of crime you’d commit if given the chance, and who wanted to start the wave.

W: And no one thought that was funny?

E.J.: I didn’t even get a piece of cake. 

W: A good waxing horror story deserves a piece of cake.

E.J. That’s what I thought!

W: At least some icing.

E.J.: And, when it comes to the blog, I want to write about completely inappropriate things. Like how major my pectoralis major looks now that I’m losing weight and burning fat and doing a gazillion bench presses every week. And how nervous I am about my first completely naked spray tan next week. Not the kind you do in an isolation booth…but the kind where a total stranger invades your personal space and hoses you down with an air gun.

W: I’m the only one who’s seen you naked in seven years.

E.J.: You’re only three.

W: That’s 21 in dog years.