Johnny Carson, on his old Tonight Show, had an ongoing gag involving the effort to find the line that's least likely to ever be uttered. He settled finally on, "This is the banjo player's Porsche."

An important on-going calculus in all our lives centers on the question of what to say or not say. All of us, I think, have lines we wish we would get to say, but won't. "I'd like to thank the Academy," for example; or, "My fellow Americans" which for some reason seems reserved for presidents, even though it is technically accurate in any forum where one American addresses other Americans. Or, "The Eagle has landed"--which is splendid but, unless you're on the moon, just doesn't play right.

Some lines are alluring yet perplexing, like: "Have your people call my people." Does anybody ever actually say that? Really? I personally don't know anyone who has ‘people,' and I surely never had any ‘people' myself; and I'm actually quite reluctant to accept the idea that someone can ‘have' ‘people' --in the sense of having yours call theirs, not in the sense of "Let my people go," which I dig, and would like to have the chance to say; but let's face it, there was only one Moses, and one Charlton Heston, and they're both dead, and a gospel singing is not in my future.

Child rearing is fertile ground for lines you can't help but end up saying, even though, and perhaps because, you hated hearing them as a child and vowed--way back when you were naïve enough to believe in the power of vows, that is, before you got married and had kids--to never utter yourself. These include the essential, "Because I say so!" The sad and ironic, "You call this music?" And the poetic, "Money doesn't grow on trees, you know."

There are some great lines that just aged and lost their mojo before you had the chance to utter them, like "Follow that cab." And who among us of a certain cohort has not fantasized about saying just once, "Book him Danno, murder one!" with that Jack Lord jaw set tight and the great hair waving. But you're no Jack Lord; and you don't know any ‘Danno.'

Anybody who watches TV must have fantasized at least once about holding those strange pads over some patient and yelling "Clear!" before jolting the poor sap's heart back to life and going off to make out with the hot nurse in the lunch room. But real life--I hate to disappoint my young readers--is not like Grey's Anatomy at all. If only because, in real life, nothing ever really gets ‘clear.'

There are some things you don't want to say, like "It's not you, it's me." You have to be really good at faking sincerity to pull that one off, and even if you do, that line will still usually cost you extra--in facial stitches, or a cab fare home, or lawyer's fees. And yet one must admit it's a better option than, "It's not me, it's you," which sounds awful even if it's true.

There are some lines you hope you will not say, even if given the opportunity. You hope to never hear yourself saying, "I gave 110 percent." In fact, most of what athletes and sportscasters say you hope you will not say. And you hope they stop saying it, too. "It was crunch time, and we responded." "We just wanted it more." "I felt it was my time."

You also don't want to say, "First, I want to thank God." It seems to me that people often thank God in the most inappropriate circumstances, like after winning a beauty pageant or a baseball game. Really, God micro-manages at that level? Big guy's to-do list all checked off?

Strangely, people always thank God after they have narrowly escaped some horrible demise: "I thank God the pilot managed to land safely in the Hudson." Personally, if the plane I was on landed in the Hudson, I would at God for not taking care of the problem a little earlier, like before the geese flew into both engines. I'd might rage at Him for the lost innocent geese, and for my lost luggage, but I'd generally want God to do more prevention, more advance planning, less reliance on last minute improvisations.

Some lines, however, can come true. There is, for example, a restaurant in Columbus, OH (the wonderful Indochine Café, on Hamilton, if you're wondering) where I can walk in and nonchalantly utter the classic: "I'll have my usual, please!" and my usual (#22 with vegetarian spring rolls, not on the official menu) shows up.

And recently, while relating to a friend the news that my book had been bought by a U.S. publisher, I caught myself saying, "My agent in New York." Now, is that not fantasy fulfilled? "My agent in New York!"

Later, the agent herself called. She wanted me to fly to New York for a meeting; yes, because she says so. Has she not realized money doesn't grow on trees? I told her I couldn't make it, and that it wasn't her, it was me. She said she'd have her people call mine. I told her I had no people; I had to let my people go. She said it was crunch time, and that I needed to want it more; I promised to give 110 percent.

I really feel this is my time.