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SIXTY. Control.

Nov. 30th, 2007 | 06:07 pm
mood: annoyedannoyed

Control


He likes to think he's in control. It's the idea that keeps him quiet - well, quiet is a relative term; quiet, only in the sense of few protests and rare demonstrations. He doesn't recall the last time he was truly in control. Paul's always made the rules; Shirley's enforced them, to the letter. Then Carl was brought in, like a hired gun with a bucket of red paint ready to make a target on the head of Denny Crane. But, he believes he's in control - at least, that's what he makes sure to tell everyone as he gestures to point out his name, first on the letterhead.

Control. It's a funny word. He tries to only use it for things like crossword puzzles - things where it's merely a word, not a statement of being. There was a time when he held power in his hand - courtrooms were his playground, and he never played nice with the other kids, unless you count leaving them both devestated and awestruck as nice. Denny Crane thinks he was nice; he feels it was perfectly charitable to step on the little people because it left them touched by Denny Crane.

The office has his name displayed all around in bold lettering. The courtrooms of Boston still echo his footsteps. But, control? That's something he lost a long time ago. It wasn't something he willingly gave up. It's not a thing he can look back on a pinpoint that exact date and time that it was stolen from his grasp. But, control is something no longer held by Denny Crane, though in reality, he isn't certain of when he ever truly held it at all.

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FIFTY-NINE. Intrigue.

Nov. 11th, 2007 | 10:03 pm
mood: chipperchipper

Intrigue


Denny Crane: The Man, The Legend, The Intrigue

It’s a working title for my autobiography that I’m making the interns write. It’s part of new employee orientation – initiation, really, but don’t tell the kids! I’ve decided that I should start documenting the important points of my life – it’s for education, they need a textbook in order to have a course about Denny Crane. It’s difficult to narrow it down to the important things – we have seventeen chapters, all about the first year of my life. Just wait until we get to adolescence. There’s always more to write about once sex is involved – and no, female viewers, sex is not the enemy. At this rate, it’s going to be a very long series. It will absolutely out-sell that Harry Potter kid. He’s a democratic twerp anyway. Don’t ask how I know. Genius can’t be explained – until you read my autobiographical book series.

I’m worried about detailing everything though. It might inspire the youth of America to be undefeated like me. That would lessen my image, unless they all gave me credit. I should look into copyrighting my undefeated status. I could collect royalties. If I wasn’t already filthy rich, then it would be genius. Although, I could use the royalties to buy Nimmo Bay. That’s always something to consider. I need a vacation. I’m starting to get writer’s block. I blame the Mad Cow. I was thinking of having bite marks on some of the pages, implying that the Mad Cow was hungry. But, that would take up valuable space – pages are money. Also, I have to make sure the interns working on my book aren’t fat – I don’t want to spread the obesity disease in the distribution of my book or soil the pages with bits of Twinkie.

I need to do some additional research – well, the interns need to – before we get to the marriage chapters and the Shirley chapters. I have to check back into the assorted divorce papers, make sure I can document all of it, unrestrained. I also have to make sure Shirley can’t fire me – which, she can’t because my name is first on the door, Sack confirmed it, but it’s always nice to check with her, make her think she holds the balls of the office, something like that. Alan will also be in the book, in completely heterosexual way, with detailed accounts of our sleepovers in order to clear up any homosexual rumors – he’s the democrat who might be into that sort of thing, Denny Crane, as the republican, is opposed, but I do love him. Yes, I said it. If you have a problem with it, then send it to Crane, Poole, & Schmidt, attention Carl Sack. Heh, Denny Crane.

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FIFTY-EIGHT. Lost.

Oct. 23rd, 2007 | 11:53 pm
mood: blahblah

Talk about something you lost.

I don’t know when I lost her. She’s the one. I know that much. I love Shirley. Ignore the fact that I’ve been married plenty of times after her – in fact, I’ve never been married to her, and maybe that says something, maybe I marry the ones that aren’t the one. But, I’d marry her, in a heartbeat, if she’d let me – hell, I’d marry her if she wouldn’t let me, but that would be complicated.

But, now she’s hitting the sack with Sack – as in Carl Sack, as in the one who is supposed to stay in New York and leave Boston to me, Denny Crane! When did that happen? She’s been here, under my very watchful eye, and somewhere along the way she thinks she might have fallen in love – or, at least into the sack – with Sack. Alan saw it coming, but then, he’s a pansy, democratic pervert who sometimes reverts to speaking in tongues, which sort of turns Lorraine on. I caught them together – Shirley and Carl, I mean. Alan’s business is just that – Alan’s business, shared only with me, the balcony, and occasionally the elevator. But, Shirley, she says she’s happy. Whatever.

I remember when we were young, when she’d lay her head on my shoulder, and I’d sing to her. That’s when life was good. I don’t know when that changed, or even why. It did though. Somehow I lost her, and I can’t tell you when or why it happened. I can’t even sit on the balcony and wax nostalgic about the downfall of Denny and Shirley. It just happened, and I don’t know when I lost her.

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Hmph.

Oct. 15th, 2007 | 08:31 pm
mood: annoyedannoyed

Hmph. This is an example of why I shouldn't spend the afternoon watching Law & Order re-runs in my office.

Denny Crane's balls. Undefeated. Even by mace.

And mr_colbert, don't make me wrestle you for Shirley. Just ask Alan.

Denny Crane.

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Republican ticket? It's the only way to go. Denny Crane.

Oct. 11th, 2007 | 08:41 pm
mood: accomplishedaccomplished

In response to the overwhelming load of questions regarding whether or not I plan to run for the Republican nomination in 08...

I bring you this.Collapse )

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FIFTY-SEVEN. Opposite.

Oct. 11th, 2007 | 01:28 am
mood: confusedconfused

You've woken up as the opposite sex this morning... now what?


It started as a dream, perhaps. The last thing you clearly recall was that glass of red wine you had before bed. You don’t often drink wine – at least, not with company. Wine is one of those things that remains tucked away in the dusty corners of the pantry, until certain lines of thinking are crossed and need to be muddled to a more comfortable state. Most things can be managed by a glass of scotch – most being the operative word.

You don’t think of her as often as you once did, but every so often, thoughts of your mother drift into your thoughts. She died when you were a boy – an ironic assessment at the moment. You were young – around ten. You’re seventy-five now, and sixty-five years have passed without your mother’s touch. She was beautiful – at least, in your memory, though you doubt seriously a photograph could contradict. She had long waves of chestnut hair and tiny, curved lips like a Madame Alexander doll – which, you only know the name of because she had a small collection of them, and your father often pointed out the striking similarity.

She died in childbirth. That’s a fact often forgotten, but then it’s best that way. With your father dead and no other important relatives to speak of, there’s been no need to discuss such details of your history. You cover the sad facts with more interesting ones – like, your own assortment of wives and calamities. But, your mother died in childbirth when you were ten. She had longed for a little girl – one to spoil and pamper, to dress up like one of her dolls. You were difficult enough, and though she loved you, she would have loved your sister more.

The details escape you – you wonder if that’s because you were ten when it happened and thus the details were left out, or if instead the supposed Mad Cow buried the details of that day into a deeper part of your mind that no longer functions. You know that your mother died in childbirth, and your sister was born dead. It was a tragedy – enough to make your father so cold, cold enough in fact to disown you for legal antics not so many years later. It seemed as if everyone forgot you then – overlooking you to instead be sure your father was alright, as he was the lawyer of the family and thereby the one with the money.

You dream of your sister sometimes – this feisty girl with chestnut hair and fire in her eyes – and wonder what she might have been. You imagine she might have been alive now, at sixty-five. She might have gone through as many husbands as you’ve had wives – or perhaps she would’ve been a docile creature, like your mother, content to stay with her husband and child. And, it’s along this line of thinking when you begin to blame that glass of red wine you had before bed.

When you woke up today – just, an ordinary day, nothing particularly important or special – you weren’t yourself. You were merely a spectator in someone else’s body – a feminine one, to be precise. You’re petite – that’s the first thing you notice as you slip out of bed, because it’s more of a slide as you hit the floor with the arches of your feet. Your hair is nearly auburn, tumbling around in messy waves. You’re still in your pajamas – the button-up ones with your initials on the cuffs – but they hang off of your curves. You look in the mirror and after the initial shock of realizing you’ve turned into a woman, you take note of the subtle features that mark you as a member of the Crane line – those high cheek bones, the curve of the jaw, the prominent nose, the fire in the eyes. Clearly you aren’t the age she would’ve been now – unless she aged remarkably – but rather at her peek, what she could’ve been.

Oh, of course, you’ve had thoughts such as these – especially when you were young and the pain was still ripe – but you can’t recall ever experiencing any of the thoughts so vividly. This ghostly image of a sister seems to have overtaken you, and you wonder who you should call first – the doctor or Alan. You touch a hand to your newly feminine cheek, and you know this is how she would’ve looked and that no one would have even harmed her. You retreat back to your bed though, because even the Mad Cow doesn’t give you delusions such as this. Freud or some other old creep would have a field day with this course of events, and you find yourself suddenly worried. You slip under the covers, determined to drift back into whatever dream your unnamed sister was conjured from and vow to never speak of this day. But, you can’t help but wonder what it might have sounded like, just once, and so you utter in her voice, “Denny Crane.”

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FIFTY-SIX. Wise.

Oct. 1st, 2007 | 10:32 pm
mood: amusedamused

Is there anyone in your life who you feel is exceptionally wise? Who & how did you meet this person?


According to a quiz at Fandango.com (and, I do enjoy those paper-bag puppets; I want one, of myself), I should be Luke Skywalker for Halloween. Denny Crane. Luke Skywalker. It's got a ring to it. Is a good ring? Hell if I know. Ask Alan. I like the idea of Flamingo Reprise. Not the point. There's still time to debate the costume choice for the usual Crane, Poole, & Schmidt office party which, Carl is not invited to. Still, Mr. Skywalker has got me thinking. Shock. Awe. Denny Crane. I know.

I've been thinking though of a Star Wars theme for the Halloween party. Alan can be Han Solo... which means Shirley can not & will not be Princess Leia - I vote for that new, hot, British thing, or the random chick that Alan is in heat for not the judge, she's crazy for babies. But just think? Either one - or, both, even - of those ladies in that hot Return of the Jedi outfit? Mmm. Denny Crane. Shirley could be Mara Jade from the novels. Yes, Denny Crane reads. Carl can be Darth Vader because he can't get any action with Shirley while in a plastic suit. It suits him. Clarence can be Lando. Jerry can be Jar-Jar Binks Obi-Wan he head-butted Carl, thereby he can be a Master Jedi.

Oh, and Paul is Yoda. We've been friends sort of for years - though he's quick to deny that in certain social settings. He's very wise - he's always able to write a pre-nup at the drop of a hat, even though he knows I probably won't agree to sign it. The one time he took a hiatus from the office, I thought we would go down in flames - well, I'd be in Nimmo Bay with Alan, if he stays in his bed and everyone else would be in flames. Denny Crane. He's a mastermind though - have you seen the way he's got everyone in this office - aside from Alan and myself, naturally - wrapped around his pinky finger? Genius. Absolute genius. Except when he tries to tell me that guns and hookers are not appropriate for the office. Then, he's Jabba the Hutt, played not by someone wise but by some nerd I met a convention when I was twelve. Oh, but Jabba... that's an idea for Carl.


Muse: Denny Crane
Fandom: Boston Legal

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meme, because Denny Crane needs inspiration for the CP&S Halloween party...

Sep. 24th, 2007 | 10:09 pm
mood: amusedamused

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FIFTY-FIVE. Lost.

Sep. 12th, 2007 | 07:39 pm
mood: accomplishedaccomplished

"The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place."

The beauty of mental impairment - the supposed case of Mad Cow disease - was his ability to become so thoroughly lost in his own mind. He often drifted while seated comfortably in his over-stuffed office chair with his feet propped on the desk. He floated through memories - some real, some fabricated - and sometimes tried to stay there.

Oh, sure, there were frequent haunts in the deeper parts of his brain - memories of his undefeated escapades, but the places where he found himself completely lost were the quiet places - the ones with the innocence of untainted childhood, before he was the undefeated Denny Crane. No, then he was just Denny - a polite, but awkwardly shy boy with glimmers of his future genius.

In non-drifting moments, the child is hidden, tucked beneath layers of rumored, diseased brain - so well hidden that no one believes Denny Crane was, in fact, a child. No, they seem to believe he has always been an adult, despite the obvious improbability of that assessment. But, beneath it all, he is still a child, wide-eyed and oblivious to the evils in the world.

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FIFTY-FOUR. Child.

Aug. 12th, 2007 | 09:21 pm
mood: chipperchipper

You've temporarily turned into a child -- what do you do?

Denny Crane always knew this day would come. He finds himself saying that a lot lately, which nearly everyone chalks up to a symptom of old age. But, he knows things. He won't go as far as to call himself a psychic, because they're all fakes and phonies, funded by the democratic party. But there are a few things that Denny Crane simply knows without reason or explanation - like, that the world will be over-run with zombies. No one ever believes him, but he has no doubt in the validity of his thoughts. He's had previous theories come true. He knew Harry Potter would live to see 7/22/07 despite the t-shirts and rumors. He knew that Colbert kid from The Daily Show would get his own show when all he was known for was his occasional segment of This Week in God. He knew his sort of son Eric and his little friends would get addicted to World of Warcraft, level solely by killing wild boars, and defeat the evil player who had taken over the realms. Oh, yes. Denny Crane knows a lot of things.

He predicted this day as well, which is why he's had a child-sized suit hanging in the closet of his office for nearly three years now. Everything had seemed perfectly normal when he stepped into the Crane, Poole, & Schmidt building - except for the above-average heat, but he didn't care about that because he had air conditioning. But, the moment he closed the door to his private office, he found himself standing in a pile that was once his suit. Anyone else would have gone into a frenzied state of panic, but not Denny Crane. He merely stepped out of the adult-sized clothes and walked over to the closet. He stood on his tiptoes and opened the door; he found a suit hanging on a rod just his height and grinned at what a genius he just so happened to be. He got dressed quickly and reached into a box on the floor then gave a pretentious sort of smirk. He had a holster custom-made for his child-sized self whenever this day should come, complete with two water guns. Oh, it was a good day to be Denny Crane - but, he felt that way every day.

He ran over to his desk and climbed into the chair. He filled his water pistols with the bottle of water that was seated on a coaster. He snorted and threw the coaster across the room like a frisbee. Once he was locked and loaded, he tossed the empty water bottle into the trash can across the room and awarded himself five points. He reached into the top drawer of the desk - the one he never used - and found a box of crayons and a small stack of coloring books. He sat contentedly at his desk and waited for one of his panicked co-workers to barge into his office - or, for Alan, who would love the plan he was formulating for re-decorating Shirley's office with toilet paper. He was so content in fact, that he uttered with a hint of a lisp, "Denny Crane."

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