I wish I had a brain.

I wish I had a brain. That would be fun. I could understand what women say the first time they say it. Like when some attractive lesbian explains to me the Kansas Act Against Discrimination, I could follow the explanation instead of the seams in her jeans.

I could control my dogs with voice commands and they would do as I say and not stand there staring at me and asking questions. I hate questions. They make me think. And thinking is almost impossible without a brain.

I actually had a thought for a few nanoseconds yesterday, but it ceased to exist even before it could even be detected by even a subatomic particle collider. It was probably just an anti-thought anyway. It went something like, If I don’t get drunk before the game, then I’ll be sober at kickoff time. That’s not really a thought, and it died as soon as it entered this dimension.

I once assumed that brain development increased rapidly once a guy reached the age of forty and the libido throttled back a little. But, while I admit that I spend much less time with Playboy and much more time with Esquire, I still catch myself flipping mindlessly through all the cartoon channels in a vain attempt to find the Roadrunner and Coyote.

I don’t know. I have no idea what "American Idol" is. I haven’t watched "Survivor" in many years, but, for some reason, the contestants are all the same as when I watched back then. I heard we elected a new president, but I’m not sure I believe it. Every thing is just the same as last year and the year before. Recession, health care, prescriptions, Iraq, Afghanistan—same talk, same talk, same talk.

I’m sure this is not true. I suspect there really is a new president and "Survivor" is really in a new season and "American Idol" probably has some sort of meaning. I suspect what’s really happening is that my brain has emigrated from my body and has left behind a loop of past years playing so that I won’t know my brain is out.

My brain is probably out having threesomes with beautiful women and thinking great thoughts. While here I sit, measuring my blood sugar and wondering why the hell the Roadrunner always stays on the marked commercial routes. He could cut across the desert any time, but no. He stays on the road and obeys the traffic signs. And the Coyote, he just keeps building linear-minded traps and stepping on his own schlong.