I have dreaded writing this blog ever since I opted to, well, write it.  Over the span of one week, I have dined with two of my favorite humor writers on the planet:  Jim Higley and Wade Rouse.  And while I find them both highly inspirational, it’s impossible to be more clever or pithy than either one of them.  Therein lies my sense of dread.

I like being the funny one.  And when I’m with these two losers, I feel like the dullest boy at the party.

While in Chicago last week, I had lunch with Jim.  I met Jim last year at the Erma Bombeck Writing Conference.  Since there are 552 women and only 6 men there, guys tend to stick out a bit.  While I was sitting amongst my cackling brood of menopausal lady-friends at the bar, Jim plopped down next to me.  I’m not sure if it was for solace or what.  I think he was impressed (read that: appalled) I could hold court with a gaggle of early-50-something women.  I enjoyed watching Jim squirm and fidget and try to integrate in to the group without them noticing.  So I did what any good teetotaler would do.  I said, “Hey, new guy!  Are you gonna buy us a round of drinks or what, dillweed?”  Jim sheepishly reached for his wallet and a friendship was immediately forged.

Turns out, Jim has a poignant, melancholy back-story.  He’s a single dad of three, a cancer survivor, a corporate America survivor and a humor writer all rolled in to one.  Downright nauseating, if you ask me.  In writing circles (and throughout much of Illinois), he’s known as Bobblehead Dad.  Bobble, er, Jim was just putting the finishing touches on his first book and trying to get it published when I met him.  Fast-forward to a year later when he’s having a book release party in June at Wrigley Field.  (I can get you an invite, if you want.)  I would be happy for him if I wasn’t so freakin’ jealous.

A few things you should know about Jim.  1) If you call him on the phone, he will never answer.  Ever.  Oh sure, you can try calling, but just know that his voicemail will always pick up.  You’ll know it’s him because the message sounds like it was recorded while Jim was talking into a pillow.  “MMph, youf reached Jimph, leaf mmum meffaaghhh affertuh beef.”  Fortunately, he’s much more articulate in real life, except when he’s talking with his mouth full of food.  And 2) Jim is the single, nicest, most congenial person I’ve ever met in my entire life.  You know how everyone genuinely cherishes and adores Betty White?  Yeah, it’s kinda like that.   He’s a bald Betty White.

I’m reading his book right now.  I have an advanced preview copy.  Keep in mind, I’ve introduced Jim to 800,000 people and I was the last of my friends to get my mitts on his upcoming book.  As payback, I was gonna sell it on the black market until I read the warning sticker that said, “Advanced preview copy.  Not for sale.  Michael, this means you.”  Jim is an inspiration to fathers and cancer survivors everywhere.   And if reading that last sentence didn’t make you throw up in your mouth a little bit, I don’t know what will.

Wade Rouse, on the other hand, is the anti-Jim.  He’ll eviscerate you with witty banter and/or bon mots and you won’t even know what hit you.  I had drinks last night with him and his boyfriend Gary.  Truth be told I was actually more excited to meet Gary because Wade is constantly writing about him in his books.  (Don’t tell Wade that.  I like to let him think it’s all about him.  And his hair.)

I met Wade at the same writer’s conference.  We unwittingly plopped down at the same breakfast table one morning.  I think we may have fought over the last scone.  Turns out, the table was actually a Mensa meeting of a small group of militant writers.  Since I was too proud to act like I didn’t belong (and too lazy to leave), I sat there.  Wade reluctantly stayed too.  Even though we didn’t introduce ourselves, we would occasionally exchange glances.  It was similar to the looks the people of Jonestown gave each other right before that whole Kool-Aid incident.

After 45 minutes of incessant yammering, it was time to scoot off to the big group sessions.  I had heard so many good things about the moderator; I wanted to get there early.  Imagine my surprise, when the moderator was Wade.  He caught my eye at one point in the auditorium and we both laughed.

Wade has this amazing gift of turning the simple, mundane aspects of life in to hysterical analogies.  He grew up in rural Missouri, which makes my hometown of Des Moines sound like Boston.  And his love of Erma Bombeck rivals mine.   Caveat.  Whereas I have a tattered shoebox filled with Erma’s books and articles, Wade has decided to pen a book about his mom’s love of Erma.  Fine.  I get it.  He wins.

The two invited me to come up and visit Saugatuck, Michigan this summer — where one of Wade’s books is largely based.  Technically, I invited myself up, but made it seem like they were inviting me. Jim would have caught on to that in a white-hot minute.  Since he’s a dad of three, nothing gets by him.  I don’t think they were any wiser.  (I hope it makes for good material for Wade’s sixth book.  Hint.)

Over the past week, I’ve been motivated by them to be more witty.  Jim and Wade are the wind beneath my wings.  And someday I will take all these musings and sell them to Random House for a killer advance.  Until then, though, it’s nice to be in such esteemed company.

Yep, I just threw up again.  You?