cannot be comprehended except by permission . . .

So, here's my entry into the fray of the House finale, "Wilson's Heart."  It was inspired by this picture:

and for some inexplicable reason, it's actually House/Cuddy AND House/Wilson. 
It's the aftermath. Susan says it's angsty - but in a good way. 

(thanks to nekocat for the screencap!)

Stereotypes

By Kaye

“He’s Cagney, I’m Lacey.” Starsky pants, tugs the handcuffs from his bra, and shoves Tiny against the Torino. He opens his purse, pulls out his gun and waves it towards me.

“Hold this, will ya?”  He’s breathing hard from running in six inch heels.

I lost my own stilettos two blocks back. I try to rip off my wig, which gets stuck on my earring – big and gold and hoopy  - and lose my grip on Rags, who skirts away, flipping me the bird, singing “fucking faggot cops” as he disappears into the alley.

“Fucking Vice.” I reach for the gun from Starsky and turn to chase after Rags, but a squad car blares around the corner and squeals to a stop in front of us.

“You girls need some help?” Manny Campos leans out the window.

“Yeah, if you can quit staring at my legs, asshole – Rags just went into the alley.”

“I’m actually staring at Cagney’s tits over there. Nice tits, Cagney.”

Starsky reaches into his dress, grabs a tit and zips it at Manny’s head. “He’s Cagney, I’m Lacey.”

I limp over, pat Starsky on the back, and gently tuck his other boob back into his bra.

fin

Today we channel David M. Starsky . . .  because he would NEVER turn down a bad cookie . . .

And today we make our loved ones insane.
Because we have pressure between our shoulders like a Road Runner anvil drop.
And we have fears like a kid who accidentally got lost in the world of Nightmare on Elm St Five, 
when he's already seen 1-4 and KNOWS what's gonna happen . . .
And we have doubts like Jack Bauer feels when CTU tells him everything's going to be alright.
And we have hopes like . . . well, they're high. That's all I'm sayin . . .

The question is:

How far can Starsky push Hutch before Hutch puts rat poison in his root beer?
Just wonderin . . .

So I have become increasingly disgruntled at my place of livelihood - a misnomer if there ever was one. And the disgruntlement does not stem from the usual job-related sturm und drang - because I love my boss, enjoy my co-workers, believe in the "product" and can write crack and fic most days . . .

It all comes down to personal worth and how many hours of life are left and how many I really have to waste on pushing papers around a desk or tapping out figures or smiling when I want to howl. That's all.

Beverly Rollwagen wrote it better. This is from her poetry collection, "She Just Wants" from Nodin Press.
It's simple. And perfect. Just the way poems should be. 

Employed

She just wants to be employed
for eight hours a day. She is not
interested in a career; she wants a job
with a paycheck and free parking. She
does not want to carry a briefcase filled
with important papers to read after
dinner; she does not want to return
phone calls. When she gets home, she
wants to kick off her shoes and waltz
around her kitchen singing, "I am a piece
of work."

sigh . . .  and then to prove that I really just need to sit ALL DAY and string words together, she writes this and I have to lie down and contemplate the way a sentence whittled down to its essence is just about the most perfect creation in the world.

Essential

She just wants to keep her essential
sorrow. Everyone wants her to
be happy all the time, but she doesn't
want that for them. There is value in
the thread of sadness in each person.
The sobbing child on an airplane, the
unhappy woman waiting by the phone,
a man staring out the window past his
wife. A violin plays through all of them,
one long note held at the beginning and
the end.

TGIF, y'all