Hello scum. Now that I’m a maven of the advertising world, I think it’s safe to say that I’m on the fast track to success. I can’t wait for all the checks to start pouring in from Google and various peanut butter concerns, all of them begging for my powerful endorsement. This is great. This is the real adrenal gland of the fucking American dream, people. Take notes Horatio Alger and Raoul Duke…You sit on your dick and type mindless drivel to unwashed filthy hordes of retards and plebians and then sit back and let the forty five cent checks add up until you can afford to buy a free standing Quiznos and a yacht. Yes, it IS TOO the American dream! It’s got all the components: impractical opulence, healthy disrespect for the public, money for nothing, swelling sense of superiority gained without any sense of meritocracy, obesity, extra mayonnaise, and of course, yachts. What else could you ask for, America? Forget it. I’m not asking you people anything. Maybe someday when you’re ad men like me, you’ll understand and then, when we’re down at the country club, at the bar in the great room, smoking Cuban cigars and drinking goat blood out of African baby skulls, we can all laugh about these early days, when the world seemed so wide open and there was that brief, fleeting moment of white hot terror when we suspected and then KNEW that someday we’d have to toil. Then, along came TJ Maxx and Lil’ Wayne’s World ads, and now, well, call over the slave, would you? I’m almost finished with my goat’s blood.
Seriously, though, since diving headfirst into the world of monetized blogging and endless streams of revenue, I’ve made a few changes. That’s right: Hair plugs, tummy tuck, pec and calf implants, new dick, better, unchafable nipples, a bicycle built for two, new granite countertops, a ballsack massager and a place in the storage space for him to sleep when he’s not working the knots out of my balls. I know, lavish. But man, you should see me. Did I mention teeth caps? Oh yeah. When I smile I look like that wall of refrigerators down at Circuit City. And I got a whole new layer of epidermis on my back to insure that I’ll never again deal with the horrors of back hair. Thank god! Although, really, at this point my appearance is irrelevant. I can buy and sell women as though they were mere Mexicans. You don’t like my back hair, well, back to the jizz mines, my dear. I’ll find someone who positively loves me for me and my yacht and my back hair and for all the endless revenue that my ads for the Hulbert Financial Digest provide. That’s right ladies. No more kicking me around. In fact, NO ONE can tell me what to do anymore, except the good people at google and TJ Maxx. Besides them I’m on top of the heap, and you can either get on this yacht or let the foamy spray hit you in the face, beeeeyotches! Yeah, boye!
What else? Um…I leave on tour tomorrow. It’s gonna be great. Well, it was gonna be cool enough to fly out and avoid that whole texas/iowa/south Dakota stretch of nothingness, but now, now I’m flying out on a private jet and when I get there, I’m gonna do what I please. You want to hear songs? Heh. Maybe. If I feel like it. That’s how it works now. Maybe I’ll just get up there and tell stories, or whack off, or fling my shit like some sort of colobus monkey. Maybe I’ll just toss nickels out to you guys and laugh like some sort of robber baron as my time traveling zeppelin floats me gently up and into the future. You never can tell with renegade millionaires like me or that one toothy bastard from Virgin. We’re unpredictable. That’s sort of the compelling risk taking that turned us into billionaires in the first place, innit? Um…what’s that guys name again? Um…branson. Dick Branson. Kind of a folksy ozarky name for a trillionaire, isn’t it? I’ll have to get one of my girls to put me in touch with him. I need other mavericks on my speed dial. I can’t just hang out with you guys forever. You understand, right? Nevermind. Who cares? Okay, memo sent. Perfect.
Yeah, so my flight leaves at ten am and I don’t know what the situation is gonna be like while I’m out on the road. I’d really like to do a sort of “dispatch from the trenches” kinda deal if I can, but we’ll see. It’s a short tour and I’ve got a lot of living to do, I can’t just be sitting around at the computer all day. I mean, as I dictate this to my man-servant, Claudio, (hi guys! [don’t worry, I told him he could do that]) I’m already becoming dry-mouthed and bored. I tire of this, Claudio. No, don’t write that down? Are you still taking dictation? Jesus Christ, Claudio, no wonder they didn’t want you in Honduras!