My Grandmamma always believed I would be famous. She went to her grave believing it, but her belief had taken on a slightly desperate, needling quality. My bride of twenty some odd (twenty? Twenty-one? I know it isn’t twenty-five) years reminds me frequently that in the course of wooing her, I suggested she ‘Hitch her wagon to a star’. I was referring to myself, and not so much lying as not caring whether it was true or not if it got her to say yes. Regular readers of this ‘Blog’ will note I am not famous and in addition, I am not getting any younger.
I hate to be rude, but I blame you. I’m doing my part, and you obviously enjoy it enough to read it for free, but have you told two friends? And have they told two friends? And so on, and so on?
Does Max Burbank crave fame to fill some emotional void created by uncaring parents, disastrous affairs of the heart, some third thing that is funnier than the last two things? No. The void Max Burbank wishes to fill is in his wallet. It is far less awkward to talk about oneself in the third person when oneself is rich.
It may surprise you, but I have dark appetites you cannot even comprehend. Or, more accurately, I wish to acquire a taste for dark appetites etc. The metaphorical wheels of the metaphorical machines that will satisfy my completely non-metaphorical desires must be greased! And while the grease is metaphorical, the money for which it is a metaphor is very, very real. The only free hobby I have is running toward things while screaming. Everything else? Moolah required. Have you any notion how much it costs to use the word ‘criminently’ as often as I do? The usage fees are staggering! Criminently!
Come on, now, muck in, help out, enable me to escape the kind of life you lead. Doesn’t it pain you to imagine me slaving away at dreary ‘paper work’ when by rights I should be supine atop a huge heap of velvety pillows sucking on a hookah hose and wearing pantaloons? When, when will I be able to swan dive off said pillow heap into vast piles of coinage in which by dint of some assumedly expensive physical augmentation I shall be able to swim? Where is my robot butler, my brace of pickpocket ferrets, good lord, where are my HELPER MONKEYS? I am LANGUISHING in relative obscurity! Doesn’t one of you reader bastards have an impressionable relative in the film industry, or an eccentric venture capitalist college pal with his ‘eye’ on the ‘main chance’? Whichever one of you makes me famous, scouts honor, you can have dibs on all the fame crumbs that spill from my endlessly devouring chops. And the greater my fame, the greater those crumbs! It’s a win/win! Is it too much to ask that you spam a link to this article to every single person in your address book?
Oh, well. While you’re bottom feeding off the decaying corpse of my not famousness, I’ll ‘grind’ more free ‘grist’ from the ‘mill’ of ‘comedy’. Always remember that resentment aside, I love you all. I’m truly grateful you are reading this sentence, assuming you have read this far. Ego gratification, while nowhere near as gratifying as financial gratification, is more gratifying than no gratification at all.