Left, a young cowboy with a loud inner-puppy. Right, a crooked selfie of some crooked, playful men. (photos by Chris Erskine)

I am the champ of strange ideas and half-baked notions.

1. Bag O’ Burgers.
2. Pencils that are also pens.
3. Nose tampons.

Calm down. These thrilling new products are still fully in the development phase. When I’m looking for investors, you’ll be the first to know.

Bummed to learn recently that someone may have swiped my Bag O’ Burgers idea. I was going to franchise that.

Obviously, a template for American success is to franchise a bunch of places that serve food that will quickly kill you.

My vision for Bag O’ Burgers: An updated version of White Castle that will offer greasy bags of 10, 15 or 20 small burgers at a time. You could also order a Bag O’ Fries, big as beach balls.

Drive-thru only. Or, if you’re really hungry, I’ll run it over to your house.

Meanwhile, I headed off the other day to buy a bunch of stuff I couldn’t really afford – meat, milk, medicine. Know the feeling?

Lately, I’ve been buying bread off the bargain rack, then keeping it a little too long, till it turns into penicillin to ward off pneumonia and basic bacterial infections.

Another big idea. I just can’t figure out how to cash in. Stay tuned.

Anyway, as I am buying a 29-cent bag of expired dinner rolls, I start thinking how great it would be to have an empire of some sort – a fleet of G-Wagons … a  private jet … a 2-acre spread next to my buddy Segal.

Note to self: Start an empire!

Then I realize that rich guys don’t seem that much happier than I am, though they are able to buy houses for their kids.

The only reason I wish I were rich: To buy houses for my kids (especially Smartacus, who’s really starting to bug me, as roommates will).

The other day, Smartacus goes: “Quit slumping … I don’t like your slumping. Makes you look old.”

Oh, so that’s what makes me look old?

Look, I’ve spent 40 years slaving over a hot keyboard, trying to save the world one spit-take at a time.

That can really wear on a guy.

The other day, as I walked White Fang past the gas station, some goof calls out, “Love your columns!”

I replied, “They’re kinda weird, huh?”

And he said, “But kind of deep too.”

Obviously he had me confused with Plaschke or Sam Farmer, both of whom are waaaaay deeper than I am. A Pekinese is deeper than I am.

For the most part, I specialize in kinky little observations about L.A. – not kinky in the traditional sense, kinky in the sense of not being conventional or very tame.

The other day, in the cool embrace of a fall morning, while rubbing the dog’s belly just to stay warm, I had the strongest urge to grab a tobacco pipe and a good book and retreat to Suzanne’s creaky mountain hideaway.

Notice how you never see men smoking pipes anymore, though pipe-smokers used to be the most-contented souls you’d ever find.

What was in those pipes? Opium? Pumpkin spice? Frankincense and myrrh?

When the holidays arrive, I might cram a wad of frankincense in my pipe and smoke it up at the lake, while squirrels circle, sizing me up for a snack.

Note to squirrels: Bad idea, you idiots. Prey on someone else, ideally someone who eats organic eggs and lots of kale. Tastes great. Less filling.

Everyone tastes better than I would. It’s why I’ve survived the mean streets of L.A. all these years. I tell ya, it’s a jungle out there: South Pas. Hancock Park. Toluca Lake. Very tough places.

You know, I’m about to turn 70? Does it show? You would’ve probably guessed 112. I’ve got more dust on me than the Magna Carta. Plus I slump a lot.

Maybe you’ve noticed, real men have an inner-puppy, a playfulness, a verve that keeps us fresh and off the bargain rack.

You can tsk-tsk that, or embrace it. Because that’s what keeps us semi-sane. That playfulness keeps us youthy.

FYI, our brains are made of balsa wood, but our hearts and pure and playful.

Doesn’t matter if it’s me, or Miller, or Charlie, or Bittner. Good men need their play time, otherwise they turn into humorless grinds who remind you too much of your ex.

I mean, look at that photo of my Halloweening grandson, aka Woody from “Toy Story.” You think that dude has a playful inner puppy?

Maybe several.

Reach for the sky, cowboy.