Chuck Lorre is a great writer. I want to be him some day. Although I don't watch all the shows he is credited with creating, I have been a big fan of Two and a Half Men since it first aired – long before the public antics of Charlie Sheen cast the beam of high-powered spotlights on the popular CBS show.

Lorre has always been quirky and among my favorite reading material is the vanity card at the end of his shows. Of course, in order to read them you must tape the show and then play it back in slow motion. They are usually worth the effort, and the essay that appeared at the end of Mike & Molly earlier this month and the one at the end of last night's The Big Bang Theory are especially… wordy (the former)… and funny (the latter) – typing errors and all.

As a loud and vocal proponent of the English language, I have been bitching about the media's carelessness in proofing articles before publication for, oh, eons. It has crossed my mind numerous times that, perhaps, the reason we see so many spelling errors is because people really can't spell. (You're shocked, I know, what with public education being as great as it is.)

In Lorre's case, I doubt that is true – he's a smart man. My guess is that sometimes his hands are held hostage by his thoughts, and his emotions just pour out through his fingertips with the speed of, well, speed. Careening over the keyboard in an effort to get all his ideas down on paper while still fresh in his mind, an occasional misspelling is understandable.

Here is the Mike and Molly vanity card:

I understand that I'm under a lot of pressure to respond to certain statements made about me recently. The following are my uncensored thoughts. I hope this will put an end to any further speculation. I believe that consciousness creates the illusion of individuation, the false feeling of being separate. In other words, I am aware, ergo I am alone. I further believe that this existential misunderstanding is the prime motivating force for the neurotic compulsion to blot out consciousness. This explains the paradox of our culture, which celebrates the ego while simultaneously promoting its evisceration with drugs and alcohol. It also clarifies our deep-seated fear of monolithic, one-minded systems like communism, religious fundamentalism, zombies and invaders from Mars. Each one is a dark echo of an oceanic state of unifying transcendence from which consciousness must, by nature, flee. The Fall from Grace is, in fact, a Sprint from Grace. Or perhaps more accurately, "Screw Grace, I am so outta here!" Questions?

Side note to Mr. Lorre: Yes, I do have a question. What?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Courtesy of Deadline/Hollywood, here is The Big Bang Theory vanity card.

Whenever I've gone through tough times, well-meaning people have told me that God/the universe does not give us more than we can handle. Well, I've been going through a tough time recently, and sure enough, that old saying has been tossed my way on several morose occasions. After some careful consideration, I've decided it's bull$#*!. As an aphorism, it only makes sense in hindsight – after you've managed to crawl from the wreckage of whatever calamity that God/the universe decided to toss your way. No one can ever use it to comfort someone who's been hit by a bus or turned into a puddle of goo by flesh-eating bacteria (although in the right circumstance, that could be a hoot). Another thing I hear a lot is, "this too shall pass." Again, I know these are words meant to reassure, but somehow they always leave me feeling that heartbreak, rage and grief are going to come shooting out of me like kidney stones through an inflamed urethra. For someone in crisis, I think a more accurate and helpful assessment of reality would be, "Love, sex, food, friendship, art play, beauty and the simple pleasure of a coup of tea are all well and good, but never forget that God/the universe is determined to kill you by whatever means necessary." Consider trying that next time you're called on to do some consoling. If you're feeling impish, you might also try, "According to the rules of comedy, your suffering will be funny after an undetermined length of time. Maybe not while you're having your gangrenous leg sewed off, watching your home burn down or learning how to be intimate with your cellmate, but in the big scheme of things, soon.

Like Mr. Lorre, I, too, have gotten simple pleasure from a coup – not in a teacup, mind you; but in a court of law where I was able to yell at the top of my lungs, "Yes! I won!" Perhaps, Mr. Lorre was thinking ahead to just such a day when the case brought by Charlie Sheen against him is settled in his favor. Okay, I don't know how the case will be resolved, but I can only be half wrong.

Meanwhile, if I should be cursed with a gangrenous leg, I do hope the doctors will remove it by means of scalpel and morphine. I neither desire to have it "sawed" off or "sewed" back on. In the event either of these things happens, does anyone have Charlie Sheen's phone number? I think I'm going to be in need of painkillers – big time – and who better to ask for advice than an expert in the field of escapism.

One last thing, if you find any typing errors in this post, "IT'S NOT MY FAULT!" Everybody else is responsible – the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker -- just not me. Hey, why should I admit guilt? Seems like nobody else ever does.