I'm Not At All Good Looking

Part 22 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

I hope this doesn’t come as any big surprise, but the Number One cause of fragile self-esteem -- referring of course to the standard Richter’s Scale of Self-Esteem, Man, Beast, or Plant -- is your appearance. What do you look like, ape or man?

Appearance can take in a whole bunch of things, gender, country of origin, economics, personality type, etc. Personality type is one of the more interesting categories, because some personalities are proudly slovenly, set in their ways, inert. Because even if you're your own worst critic, there are things you can't see. If you look in a mirror -- I'm convinced of this -- you're not really seeing what others see. I'm in my 60s but look 26-ish in the mirror, to me.

In reality, though, a guy can look like an old-fashioned city dump in pants, or, if it’s a woman, can resemble the same city dump in a girdle so tight it’s constricting her blood-flow and given her very tight veins. Anyone with an overly pale appearance, it's generally a matter of shy, very demure, veins. You see one, you want to be careful. Don’t buy her an ice cream sundae because the first bite she’ll pop! And speaking of Pop, he's got diabetes real bad and can’t have ice cream, but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking it, resulting again in tragedy, his blood sugar so wildly out of whack he sweats through his clothes and ruins the couch. And maybe dies. Either way, the couch is hauled out.

So “appearance” is a catch-all category. If it “appears” to fit, throw it in, the more the merrier, "ya ha, I'm so proud, I'm the merry prankster!" There’s a lot of people who like to work with data. (Which may not be especially relevant, my first spoken word as a baby was Data and Mama.) Although now with the couch ruined, and Data maybe dead, maybe not, depending on if someone called 911, it likely doesn’t matter. I’d run in myself and check but I’m on a deadline with this article. And I’m weighing every word, consulting the dictionary, seeking sentences online that I can copy without detection, common stuff, like “It’s a nice day where I live,” who’s going to know? It sounds like something I might say so it's good enough!

Anyway, appearances. Did you know this? I used to be a consultant for a church. With me so far? The church had a TV ministry, and one of their doctrines had to do with the blessing of God manifesting itself in prosperity, always bettering your best, receiving and having material things, more and more, greater and greater luxuries, swag, being the envy of the world. And they knew the truth, that any of the riff raff coming in with despicably bad clothes needed to be dealt with. We mostly sat them in the last rows, then say 10 minutes in, we’d rotate them out and bring in a new bunch. Each bunch would get donuts and juice, then go through the door to the “jacuzzi,” which was actually an exit that locked behind them. That church had high self-esteem, and I’m sure you’d agree they deserved their stellar reputation.

All that is kind of amusing, I know -- which I might reprise if I ever do the theme “Getting Away with Anything” -- but today we’re worried about self-esteem. And whether Richter had it on his scale or we merely go by common sense, appearance is the number one thing. If you overhear someone say you’re not at all good-looking, it’s 50/50, maybe you are purely ugly, but more likely it’s a mixture of your physical appearance including your clothes. And even a monster looks halfway decent in a nice suit and tie.

I'm sure you get the point.

I'm Now A Billionaire

 

I'm now a billionaire! Isn't that great? I can barely believe it. Me, the last several years bringing in $450 disability for a game toe, and taking anything my relatives could spare -- which wasn't much. Now I have $2.1 billion to my credit!

Let me try something here. I'm working my hand into my armpit and trying to type at the same time, as I blast a rather unpleasant noise in the general direction of my bank, who'd never in a million years loan me a measly thousand bucks for expenses. Oh, hell no! The last guy slammed the door in my face. With a tour group coming out of the vault that day, too, which didn't do much for my ego, having 35 sightseers see me cry, and the banker pointing his stern finger rigidly to the door. "And stay out!" were his exact words.

Now look at me! Ha ha! $2.1 billion dollars. I seriously had to look it up, how many zeroes a billion has, to write it in my check registry, and I'm still not completely sure I have it right. $2.1 million would be a puny $2,100,000, I know that. Not many zeroes there! But a billion is a thousand times a million. So when you get to $999,999,999 million and turn the zero over, it adds 1. It looks like I have it right, a lot of numbers!

I love it. On the 6th, yesterday, I had $308.83 to my name. Then that day goes away and I wake up today and end up with $2,100,000,308.83! I could take the 83 cents and throw it in the gutter; I'm never going to need chickenfeed again. Although I'll probably keep it. It's not worth the effort to throw it in the gutter. I'll just leave it in the checking account, for a rainy day.

What a rags to riches story I've got going! Of course it's all thanks to the billionaire. He comes to town, events conspired to throw us together, we become fast friends, and next thing he comes out and offers me a couple billion dollars. Hope you're not jealous.

Probably the weirdest thing is I could've had so much more. He said he wanted to make my life more comfortable and I should tell him how much it'd take. You have to agree, it sounds like the sky's the limit. $30 billion? $50 billion? Whatever I wanted! But I said, No, I'm not going for billions upon billions of dollars; that kind of money could only get me in trouble. You hear of some extremely rich guy, his relatives get kidnapped, and the kidnappers start sending pieces of their ear, etc., demanding a big ransom. And the only thing worse than relatives visiting me would have to be their body parts showing up unannounced.

So when I gave my answer I narrowed it down to a very modest figure, specifically $2.1 billion. That's all I wanted. I reasoned it out like this: $1.1 billion would be plenty. It'd give me 100 million to live on, not touching the first billion, making me perpetually a billionaire. But then I thought, it'll be burning a hole in my pocket in no time. And I want enough to spend that once it's spent I'll still be a billionaire.

That's part of the reason, with the rest being, I simply want to keep some modesty and humility in my life. If I'm walking around with $50 billion, I can see myself getting a big head. "Ha ha ha, I'm better than you, because I have $50 billion!" To me, that's no way to live. Now, though, with $2.1 billion, if I'm ever stupid enough to boast, all they have to say is, "Yeah, but it's only $2.1 billion. Look at Warren Buffet, he's got lots more."

Does money bring security? Yes and no. One thing crossed my mind. The government insures your money up to $250,000 per account. Each million has 4 units of $250,000. So a billion has 4,000 units of $250,000. Meaning 2.1 billion has 8,100 units of $250,000. How in the hell am I going to open over 8,000 bank accounts? If I open accounts at 10 banks a day, that'll take me over 2 solid years! Can you imagine how utterly boring that'll be -- monotonous! -- to waste that much time? 

It's always some damned thing. I need to Google what other billionaires do? I'm asking. Or ... just wait and ask the billionaire tomorrow.

Happy Billionaire Easter

For me, selling Easter bunnies always anticipates the joy of Easter Sunday, but this was an extra special year. Thanks to the billionaire, I sold them all!

As you know by now, I met a man who truly personifies the meaning of the holiday, new life and possibilities, the billionaire. Perhaps he's not the absolute richest man in the world -- that honor would go to someone in oil or defense -- but he's way richer than most. This isn't just funny business, he's literally got billions of dollars, and I know him!

You can't believe how special it was this year, unlike every dreary year in the past, the craft sale ended as soon as it began. The billionaire appeared -- simply appeared, as though brought forth from the light itself -- and bought my whole stock! "Name your price," he said. Now I realize I could've said any number and he would've paid it, but in innocence I said, "Two thousand dollars." Just like that, instead of the usual couple hundred I would've made, and that not all profit, I had $2,000, not to mention the rest of the day off.

Now it's only been a little over a week, but the world has changed so much ... thanks to the billionaire. Where he's not, there are limits. Where he is, those limits are surpassed, to the point that you no longer even consider them. This isn't just some harebrained theory, like the theory of evolution, gravity, or our need for water, this is the central fact of life. The billionaire takes guff from no man; he simply buys them off and watches them dance at his knee. And that's special. With my life now tied in with his, I don't know that there's anything I can't do, high or low. That's what Easter means to me.

Perhaps the craft sale should've gone on a little longer. Let's say I'd sat in the usual doldrums until mid-afternoon. Then perhaps his glorious appearance would've been more revelatory. You know how when you're doing something you absolutely hate? But you have to do it, say, to make a measly couple hundred bucks, not all profit? Because you need that money, because you've got a mouth to feed when you get back home, your own? And if you quit feeding it, eventually it'll be "All Systems Go" for shutting down? That's sort of what happened to my Uncle Clarence... He filled his system with booze and the lady's husband came in and killed him.

So I'm sitting there, and it's high noon, and I'm fanning myself. Customers, customers, everywhere, and not a single one stopping to buy. I'm thinking, 'Life, for everything it's cracked up to be, truly sucks. This is as low as I've ever sunk, wearing my appetites (eating later) on my sleeve in this desperation. Everyone knows what I'm here for, to eat later, excrete waste, and get up and do it all again the next day; don't tell me I don't know what life's all about!' That's when I hear the cry of attendants, "Make way, make way, for the billionaire!"

You think, 'Some crackpot's got a big head!' When in strolls the actual billionaire, relieves me of my burden, granting new life in the form of $2,000, and sets me free. This week -- how can I put it? -- it's been the absolute tops. The billionaire changed my life, and he's truly made me see real life for the first time.

With his billions and my brains, I don't know that there's anything we can't do. Happy Easter, indeed.

My Disastrous Mind-Reading Tour

Just last Thursday, I shared the glory of my waving tour. I was super-happy with the great reception I got in the various neighborhoods. As I recall, some of those cul-de-sacs don't see five cars a year -- and those are just criminals scoping it out -- so they're grateful a nice guy like me takes time to come through.

Well, it's Thursday again, and this time, darn it, it didn't go as well. I thought, I need to get out there for another tour, but this time something more in depth than waving; this time would be a mind-reading tour. What are people really thinking? We all want to know that from time to time.

Admittedly, I've always had mixed results with mind-reading, going way back to school. Different ones knew I could read minds, so I had a hard time fitting in. One time I got involved with the wrong crowd, and could only get out of trouble by testifying against the others. Yes, they were pissed. But fortunately I could read their minds about what they wanted to do to me. There were obvious cues, including knives and truncheons. My worst memory is of one big bruiser with a motorcycle chain wrapped around his fist. And such a mean look.

It's a gift I don't say much about, but if my motives are entirely good, you know, I figure, What the hey? I'm going to get out there and duplicate the joy I had with the waving tour, I'll get a good reception and everything will be great.

But what happened? I got nothing but negative vibes from the folks. I started on the west side, the ritzier part of town. A lady came out with her little chihuahua, and she thought I was likely a criminal, probably thinking dirty thoughts about her, and sure to be trouble. I considered getting out and having it out with her, except, of course, any hostility would only reinforce her thoughts. Still, I couldn't quite control myself and flipped her the bird, which she returned, lustily. Her little dog also looked spoiled!

At another house at the end of that block, there was a guy mowing his yard. He saw me and was thinking he should probably double check that he'd locked the door, because, "This guy looks like trouble." I should say mind-reading requires intense concentration and staring at the subject. Mere glances give poor results. The guy ticked me off so much I was thinking maybe I should wait till he got to the other side of the house, then come around and steal his gas can. Except, as above, it would only reinforce his thoughts.

In the mid-region of town -- not too rich, not too poor -- this one guy had all kinds of thoughts. According to him, he'd been suspecting his wife of cheating on him on Thursdays, a day he normally works. But he decided to stay home today and catch a glimpse of the bastard. Obviously, he thought it was me! A guy who respects the sanctity of marriage. I continued however to read his thoughts, as he pictured his wife naked at the door meeting some guy. She didn't look bad! Meaning, just to get back at him, maybe I should come back next Thursday.

On my way to the poor side of town, I passed a couple of cops, whose thoughts of me included some insults about the quality of my car, and whether they should pull me over. They reasoned, We've got a quota and there has to be about a million things we could ticket that slob for. But -- and I know it sounds stereotypical -- the donuts they were working on had about three minutes left of peak freshness, so I escaped the dragnet.

On the poor side of town, I also got some bad thoughts. First it was kids, thinking they'd send their little brother into the road. Then when I stopped for him they'd run over and lie down against my tire, looking like I hit them. They'd work out a deal with me, knowing "an old mark" like me would jump at the chance of paying them off. I flipped them the bird too, and called out, "No pay off today, suckers!"

Just then, Mom comes to the door of the house, two other kids hanging from her breasts, and calls them over. She can see they were thwarted, then turns over the thought in her mind that she knows me and might be able to get me for child support for the youngest pair. I'm thinking, "Honey, I've only been drunk one night in my life, the night you were stripping at The Filthy Bird, and you ain't gonna pin those kids on me! You ain't got a DNA sample and I'm gettin' the hell out of here!"

Crazy people and their crazy thoughts. It goes to show what they say is true: Nice guys finish last.