My Comedy Heroes #10. Rick Moranis

9 to 5

You Better Crisp it Up

He holds in his hand the remnants of a Buttery Nipple shot. The downward thumb was a ruse. He loved it.

Fall Never Came

Look Directly into My Thighs

Well it's high time you learned to laugh. You and your friends and your squeaky lives are so important to me. I will teach you to kiss-listen. I will teach you to wrestle-hug-touch listen. I will teach you to bakers dozen. I will teach you to Korea the moment. I will teach you to crime the dog. There will be awakenings. There will be the seeing of the truth. There will be the pulling of the lever at the ol' night whisper factory (BYO whiskey). We will scoot our little buns into the proscenium of surprise. With the movement of our hands, we will create a gust of blush that powders the faces of swooping angels. We will eat Snickers. We will drink cream soda. We will be the storm windows in the wake of the already churning tornado—funnel cloud, torn shutters, sandblast. We will eat cupcakes without utenstils. We will harmonize and know. We will Charleston, the sort Grandma taught us on the tiled floor of the kitchen. Perfect Charleston conditions. We will be reckless abandon: chips with queso chipotle dip. We will be a choreographed musical with the insinuating jazz hands and the tap shoes. We will parade through the streets of Now with top hats and polyrhythms. There will always be a place to run and hide. There will always be a place for you to be weak. There will always be a place for you to hate your reflection and at the same time love how much you know about Marc Bolan. You are home. You are cake.

We will....

Here.