by Bill Maher
Buck thought about that. He knew there was a lot of truth to
it, and yet it did not depress or alarm him. Rather, it made him
feel lucky. Because it meant that God gave a lot of people the
desire but very few the talent. And for some reason, God had
seen fit to give him both. That was lucky.
Buck let out a long breath and raised his head toward the
sky. A drizzle had commenced, and Buck let it spray his face.
He liked it. It was almost that St. Patty's Day mist he loved so
much. It was cleansing; it was good. He felt cleansed, and
good. He felt thankful, and he was amazed at how good it made
him feel to feel thankful. He felt humble; he felt lucky. God
had taken him out here, like...oh, whatshisface, whoever it
was there on the road to Damascus, or the road to Jerusalem,
or the Turnpike - whatever, some damn road where some damn
guy saw the light and saw for the first time how lucky he was.
I'm lucky, Buck thought to himself - and I ought to remember
that more. Buck pledged that from this day on, he would be a
differnt person, a different comedian. He pledged that he would
be a better practitioner of both.
Buck paused, and looked down. Then he looked out into the
distance, into the good black night that still had so many secrets
for him to uncover.
And then, as he looked out as far as he could see, he thought:
So where the fuck is the bus?
Dinner break - then more from Literary Geniuses - right here on stidh.