Pen in hand, I debated what to write at this juncture. I’m a man for all seasons. I can be the 800 pound gorilla if I have to be. It’s time to put up or shut up, to grab the whole enchilada.

I’ve had plenty of ideas, batted a few around. I’ve even run a few up the flagpole to see who salutes. But I figure good things come for those that wait.

Problem is I had nothing worth writing home about.

I was at my wits end.

It got to be the eleventh hour when, low and behold, my editor blurted out to never use clichés. "Avoid clichés like the plague," he bellowed.

That’s like a wolf in sheep’s clothing for me. I’ve always marched to a different drummer, been odd man out, so to speak. An editor says don’t, I retort, "How high?" It was time to head off the beaten track.

I pronounce, "C'est la vie" or was it "Que sera, sera?" Either way, I figure a cliché in the hand is worth two in the bush

After all, I am master of my domain, captain of my soul. I just hope the man in the street believes I’m doing justice to the subject.

When it came time to spill ink, stain the paper, making a bad decision is better than making no decision at all.

No time like the present to put the oar in the water. I figured I needed to burn the midnight oil to take stock of my cliché knowledge.

Hopefully this will work out to be better than the sum of its parts, but if not, in the cold light of day we can take comfort that there are lies, damned lies and statistics.

I’m not going to get carried away, putting a chicken in every pot. I’d hate readers to think I’m as silly as a goose.

I wish I could come up with a limited number of clichés at the drop of a hat, but with my back against the wall, I didn’t want to go back to the drawing board.

So I asked my friends, after all many hands make light work. Besides beggars can’t be choosers.

Some thought I was biting off more than I could chew. Others pointed out my glass was half full, still others opinioned that it was half empty.

Another advised not to, it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

(My friends are not the brightest bulbs in the box. Sometimes I think their lights are on, but nobody is home. I might even say they are a taco short of a combination plate. Still you’d think even a blind squirrel would find an acorn every now and then.)

But I’m going for it, after all, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse.

It’s time to open the kimono and realize opportunity doesn’t knock twice.

When the game is on the line, the tough give 110 percent. They must know they can’t stop me, they can only contain me.

I’m clutch and my head is in the game.

This should be as easy as falling off a log. This should be duck soup.

The problem is I’m all dressed up and got nowhere to go. I’ve been sitting here dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s, but ends up I’m writing checks my mouth can’t cash!

I think the handwriting is on the wall. You can’t get blood out of a turnip.

Maybe it is time to cash in my chips and call it a day. I’d hate to be the one responsible for opening Pandora’s box.

I need to figure out how to just pick the low hanging fruit. Why piss into the wind if you don’t have to?

I think I’ll just get with the program and not rock the boat. I’ll stop trying to go against the grain and just take the easy way out.

Then again, you can’t get the toothpaste back in the tube, so maybe it’s time to swallow my pride and get back in the saddle.

I’ll just exclaim that cliché’s are older than dirt. That should get me off the hook. This is no time to be a Monday morning quarterback. If you can’t dance, blame the DJ.

That’ll silence the critics.

Nobody can claim I didn’t give it the old college try.

Hope this column doesn’t get my editor madder than a wet hen.