In my ongoing quest to become rich, I recently began preparing my memoirs. Only the richest, most influential people write memoirs – or get them published, I should say. Otherwise every two-bit Jimmy and Jane on the block would be pumping the market full of balloon juice. Beginning this project now will leave me more time to enjoy being rich later. I would assume the full volume will hit the shelves anywhere within the next three to seven years, or whenever it is that I accomplish the remarkable feat that, still unbeknownst to me at this time, will make me an extremely rich person. Let’s just poke our nose in on a random chapter and see what’s cookin’.


….”And so I said to her, that wasn’t a ferret!” Oh, hello. Didn’t see you there. I was just telling a hilarious anecdote to some friends. Anyways, this seems like a good part of the memoir to reveal a major character-shaping event in my life that led me to become who I am today. As we all know, I spent the summer of ’03 working as a “butter melter” under the employ of my uncle Bruce at a dairy plant in a small agrarian town in Minnesota. I spent all day sliding 50 pound blocks of butter into a 250 degree vat where it eventually melted. Not so long after beginning there, the time came for my forklift training. This consisted of me sitting on a forklift in a room full of wooden pallets, and a guy named Fuzzy telling me to “move them around until you’ve got the hang of it.” And so I did. Not soon after, disaster struck. While lifting a stack of pallets, I inadvertently caught the edge of an electrical box on the wall and ripped it out of its moorings. Luckily the training that I had just given myself allowed me to deftly maneuver a bunch of pallets in front of the box to hide it. I just assumed that time would pass and it would go unnoticed. How right I was, for a little bit.

Weeks later, while walking the grounds with uncle Bruce and some guy with a moustache, I don’t recall his name because everyone there but me had a moustache, we came across the box, just hanging there. Someone had exposed it, not knowing that I was hiding a terrible secret in the rotten jungle of pallets. Anyways, Bruce was all like “Who did this?” And the guy with the moustache was all like, “It was probably that idiot Stanley.” Stanley, by the way, was some guy with one eye who never showered. Now, keep in mind that in the butter melting profession, you are covered in butter and sweat for eight to twelve hours a day. So if you don’t shower, things get sour. I thought to myself, “Nice, they’ll just pin the blame on this stinky one-eyed guy.” And it turns out I was right.

Therein lies the lesson for this portion of the memoir: always have a weird looking person that you can project blame onto. And in this case, I didn’t even have to do the blaming, other people did it for me. So there’s another lesson. Just kind of hang out in the background and let other people battle it out. That’s what the Swiss do. And Switzerland also happens to be one of the wealthiest countries in the world.

Thus concludes this portion of the memoir.

By the way, I don’t think that electrical box was actually hooked up to anything, so no one got in any real trouble anyways.

Here’s the Blong (Blog Song) of the day. Junior Kimbrough – Done Got Old. Dirty, filthy, nasty blues.


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