I am a tropical storm
Seldom in life, a man is given an experience that sticks with him forever. His wedding day, for one. Maybe his Bar Mitzvah. Perhaps his Catholic Bar Mitzvah*.
No matter, really. The point is, we are not often given “bonuses” in life. We float along, and take the special moments given to us. We treasure them, and we try our hardest to hold on as tight as we can, knowing that eventually, we will all expire.
I never thought of myself as being special. It would never have dawned on me to believe otherwise. I have lived an average life and been all the better for it. Not once have I wished for something more, or even shown a grain of desire for fame and fortune. No. I have lived happily and humbly.
Until yesterday, when I turned on the national news to find this:
Tropical Storm Matthew. Yes, that’s me. Every news station this side of the globe is screaming out my name. I can hardly contain myself.
I am here to announce my retirement from writing**. At present, I wait patiently by the phone for Diane Sawyer to call for my first interview. I have hired a financial planner, a lawyer, a manager, my manager’s lawyer, a driver, a son, three dogs, my second dog’s wife (also a dog, making four), and an entourage (yes, exactly like the kind on the show).
I appreciate you reading my final piece. The next time you see me will be on the cover of People Magazine, talking about my new wife Oprah.
*What is a Baptism?
**Just kidding.
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Oh yeah?
Nice to meet you, Matt.
I’m Andrew.
Andrew is dead. Long live Matthew.
(in a Spanish accent, for some reason)
“Ah, but we will measure by legacy alone, my friend!”
(cue 1960’s Spanish trumpets)
(cue wind sound effect)
(cue clashing samurai sword sounds)
(cue ice cream truck song)
(cue ocean waves fizzing sound)
(cue owls at night in the woods sound)
Sorry, my sampler is acting up. But you get the idea.
Hey, I was in Andrew (the hurricane, not the person) — Matthew (the storm, not the person) has a long way to go to equal that.
Oh I get it. Everyone gang up on the new guy. Real mature.
Well, there isn’t an infamous Hurricane Scott, so what can I do?
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B000NMSI6S/?tag=wfthecoliseum-20
A closest catholic equivalent to a Bar Mitzvah is a confirmation. Sort of a funky coming-of-age-spiritual-abduction-thingy.
And unfortunately my one shot at greatness wound up being a little pissy Cat 2 that didn’t make landfall until Newfoundland.
Alas I will keep my day job.