Archive | 8:42 pm

For Kyle the Bell Tolls

12 Apr

Recently, I’ve been notified that sometimes people, old people, have to get jobs in order to make what my father lovingly refers to as “money.” I’ve never had a need for money. All my expenses have been paid through an intricate system of bartering and a unique economic strategy I call “stealing.”

When I went to college, I decided I wanted to pick  a degree that would almost automatically ensure me six figures or more of dollars a year (Sorry, I’m still getting used to using money cents terms in my life.). Anyway, the major I ended up picking was English, because I knew that Ernest Hemingway was rich as hell and he went on boats and did big game hunting. That sounded perfect–just what I wanted to do. The cruel joke was revealed to me two weeks ago, when I went to a local publisher, handed them a manuscript of my first novel, “Kyle’s Alright: The Kyle Irion story, with a foreward by Maury Povich.” I then patiently waited to receive my boat. After twenty or so minutes of standing silently at the front desk, coughing to receive attention, then looking away as if I hadn’t, I asked the woman where my “damn money boat” was. She looked at me, confused. I told her that authors get money, usually in increments of large, unwieldy piles, for their work. She laughed. I growled. She looked nervous and backed away from me. I looked hungry and stepped toward the desk. However, I was already leaning on it, so all I could really do was lean forward slightly. After several uncomfortable seconds, I backed away. It was here that she told me that manuscripts had to be accepted and then published and then enjoyed by several thousand readers before I could have anything close to Hemingway-esque glory. I asked her what about the guy who wrote Goosebumps, can I just get what he got? I could not.

Have you ever seen me cry? If you said yes to this question, consider yourself marked. If you said no, believe me, it’s not pretty. Long story short, I cried. I hate it when people tell me “Sir, no, there aren’t any…millions of money bucks…in that fountain. Please, leave.” I figured I was being Punk’d, so I ran up and viciously assaulted the closest guy in a trucker hat, not because he looked like Ashton Kutcher, but because he probably thought he did. I wasn’t being Punk’d. I was being Truth’d.

So what do I do? I can’t just give up, right?

I was really asking. Could I give up? No, of course not. So, last Monday, or “Funday” as I call it, I heard an ad on the radio advertising advertising opportunities with the CIA. I love James Bond, and I love abbreviations. I lv. abbr.’s One day, I’ll write a blog completely in abbreviations, and they’ll have to close down the internet because of all the traffic to my site. I’m saving that one, though, for when dick jokes aren’t funny anymore. *Shivers*

I applied online, and it took me half an hour. This is roughly 28 minutes more than I’d wanted to spend filling this application out. After filling it out, I clicked “submit” and then opened my wallet, so I could literally watch all the centavos entran mi carpeta. No go. No centavos. No entran. No speaky ingles. So I figured that they were probably going to want to interview me first, to make sure that I actually own a wallet. I was so excited I made this face:, that's not right., that's not right.

The face I made was closer to this:

That's it. There you go. that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

So there I am. I’m waiting. I’m anticipating. I’m respirating. Sure enough, I never get a call from the CIA. I’m not sure why, but they never gave me a ring. I signed up to be a secret recruiter. Pretty much I would of gone overseas to find people who I thought were CIA material and bring them into the fold. Why did I think I would be qualified for this? The same reason anybody thinks about joining the CIA: I really liked The Recruit with Al Pacino and Colin Farrell. What is it about me that’s so un-CIA? Is it that I have a degree in writing and literature? Could it be that I have no military experience whatsoever? Could it possibly be that my last job was listed as a “Salad Cook”? No. I will posit that the CIA is not interested in me because every single staff member is afraid that I would steal their job.

That’s it. Nothing else makes sense. Please call or e-mail your congressman and lobby for my employment in the Central Intelligence Agency, or as I call it (at least until they wise up) the Centrall Intelligence Gay-gency. Get out there and make a difference, kids.

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