I awoke that Monday morning from a fitful half-sleep, my dreams infiltrated by a half-naked, all-stoned Lindsay Lohan begging me, over and over, to stop teasing her and chew her Bubblicious until it’s soft enough for her to take without making her gums begin to bleed. I opened my eyes to wondrous relief; the supermodels I had acquired over the weekend were still sleeping soundly, their heads resting against my vast chest, which rippled even with my softest breath.

I met them, Annakannaa and Rosarita, the previous Saturday night while I dined with the former White House Senior Advisor Karl Rove and the renowned actor, Michael J. Fox. It turns out the ladies are fans of my writing, and had been searching for almost a month in random restaurants in the hopes of meeting and making athletic love to me. Their quest seemed like so much folly; they had never even seen a picture of me, but somehow they both knew that they would recognize me if they were lucky enough to catch a glimpse. They were right. The perfect masculinity that screams forth in my prose is personified in my touched by the angels countenance. They approached our table to the envy of every man and woman in the place. Mr. Rove even cast a jealous eye, but I’m not sure if it was because I had them or they had me. After introductions in their variations of broken English, I offered the ladies each a seat on either side of me, and we returned to our dinners.

The ladies stared dreamily at me as Michael J. Fox, Mr. Rove, and I continued our discussion about their new role lobbying for proposed legislation that would legalize, in some cases, embryonic stem cell research. The plan is to gather stem cells from embryos produced by intercourse between death-row inmates. The conservative argument is that these are not actual human lives, since they will only be created under strict regulation by the government, and it will allow death row inmates something to work toward, since they will only be allowed to participate in the program through exhibited good behavior.

“But wouldn’t it be difficult to create enough embryos for the needed research, given the greater percentage of men on death row than women?” I asked Rove.

“That is true right now,”he replied, “But we are currently working on legislation at the states’ level that would increase the penalties for certain crimes, like abortion.”

“But since abortion is legal, wouldn’t it be difficult to get the death penalty?” I asked.

“Murder is murder,” he replied,”I think with the right juries we can use that angle to increase participation in the program. We are also looking at dog-fighting as a death penalty offense.”

“That brings to mind another question, Mr. Rove. Is there any truth to the rumor that some of the embryos will be turned over to the military for the creation of a proposed ‘clone army?’” I asked, “I only ask because you mentioned dog fighting, and it seems like Mike Vick would make a great Universal Soldier.”

“I agree Mr. Vick would make a great Sci-Fi hero of any kind, but, no, there is no truth to that rumor. We simply believe that it would be easy to get the death penalty for people who mistreat animals. PETA is a powerful group.” Rove said.

“But isn’t there a concern that in making dog-fighting a death penalty offense, we might see an increase in the overall dog population? It has been my understanding that these dog-fighting operations, while illegal, are working to keep dog numbers in check,” I pointed out, “Nobody wants another “dog-flu” scare.”

“We are aware of the dangers,” Rove replied, “According to Fox News, nearly two people have died worldwide from “dog-flu”, one of whom had a friend whose neighbor once traveled to the US.”

“That’s scary,” I shuddered.

“Yes,” Rove said, “It’s very close to home. That’s why it is important to get this measure passed. This research is vital in finding a cure for this type of disease. And the CDC has already identified other potential pandemics that could affect this country in the near future, such as the “porcupine cold and cough” and the “chimpanzee sprained ankle”.”

“Good God,” I said, “The facts are horrifying.”

“That’s why making dog fighting a death row crime could be useful,” Rove went on, “With sexy celebrities like Mike Vick involved, more women are likely to be arrested in dog fight raids. And we really could use more females on death row.”

“So the number one concern for the program is getting more women involved?” I asked.

“Yes, I would say so,” Rove replied, “With such a disparity in numbers, the male inmates are already grumbling about sloppy seconds.”

“Men on death row are worried about sloppy seconds?” I asked.

“That’s right,” he said, “they’re a cleaner people than you might think.”

I looked at Michael J. Fox and he seemed to be nodding. Or shaking his head. Or both, I really couldn’t tell. Rove was definitely a man of vision. It seemed that the liberals and conservatives had finally found some common ground. I had my story and my 32 ounce steak was gone, so I took a girl under each arm and excused myself. As we were walking out of the restaurant I felt a tiny, soft hand grasp my shoulder. Instinctively, I twirled around, extracting myself from the girls’ embraces and extending a powerful arm toward my attacker, firmly clutching him vise-like by the throat. It was Rove.

“I-I’m sorry,” he gasped, “You forgot your notes.” I quickly released him and he handed me my notebook.

“My apologies,” I said, mildly embarrassed, “You startled me.” I found myself somewhat impressed that he was still conscious. Lesser men have been rendered comatose by my hand. But this bald, pudgy, troll-like little man was unharmed.

“You know, Karl,” I said, handing him my business card, “I’ve been looking for a new assistant. Someone to help with my schedule, perhaps do some light housework and gardening. Occasionally I drink vast amounts of alcohol and ingest large quantities of narcotics and sometimes I may soil myself, wherein you would need to undress and clean me before seeing me to bed. The usual stuff, but I haven’t found the right person. If the lobbying gig doesn’t work out, give me a call.”

“Hmm,” Rove said, “How much does it pay?”

“The salary is modest,” I answered, “more than the Guatemalan cook but less than the Chinese masseuse. But what I can offer you is unlimited power and intellectual stimulation. And your own parking space. Plus, your room will have Dish Network. It’s the basic package, but if after ninety days your job performance is satisfactory, we’ll look at getting you HBO.”

Rove stood silently for a moment, lost in thought. He looked back at the table where Michael J. Fox sat alone. Then, looking back to me, he extended his hand.

“You’ve got yourself an assistant,” he said, as he gestured back to Fox, “I am sure he can handle the lobbying by himself. But I fear he may have a drinking problem.”

“I didn’t want to mention it,” I said, “His head seemed to be spinning all evening.” I looked at Fox and shook my head.

“Oh well,” I said, “Welcome aboard!”

We shook hands enthusiastically and parted ways. I had a feeling about Rove. The little man had spunk. As I rode with the ladies back to my estate, my thoughts were elsewhere. It felt as though a new chapter was opening in my life, and I knew Rove would be the catalyst that would help me along my path toward creating the greatest story ever written.

I arrived at LAX late Saturday afternoon. The flight was not unpleasant, aside from the usual small disturbances involving the Middle Eastern passengers, whom were beaten and bound, so as not to evoke fear from the fairer skinned travellers. I, being of dark hair and complexion, might have easily been mistaken for Arabic, yet I was allowed to go undisturbed, for, as one of the crew said to me, “Even if you are a terrorist, sir, to lose our lives to one so dashingly handsome and brilliant of mind would be an honor, not a tragedy.” I assured the captain that I am a man of peace, unless you cross me, and all were safe in my presence.

Upon disembarking the aircraft I checked my cell; there were 842 unheard messages. It seems that my one night stand with Jessica Biel affected her more than I realized. “Damn,” I said to myself, “Time to change my number again.” I deleted the first couple of messages, but stopped on the third, hearing a male voice.

“Wow, sir, I can’t tell you what an honor this is! My name’s Pete Carroll and I coach the football team here at USC, uh, that’s the University of Southern California, and my friend Will Ferrell gave me your number and said you’d be in town. I can’t begin to tell you what an honor this is! Anyhoo, I was wondering if you’d do me the honor of giving the pre-game speech to my team this afternoon. I don’t know, these kids seem to have lost focus a little and I can’t think of anyone better to re-instill the winning attitude than you, sir.”

Of course I would do it. There is nothing more rewarding in life than helping youngsters down the right path, and few things help people, both young and old, more than hearing me speak. I would have to put my original reason for being in the City of Angels, the Michael Vick story, on hold for awhile. I’m sure you’re familiar with the Vick story of which I’m referring; that is the grand opening of Tasty Pit, the new Korean barbecue restaurant co-owned by Vick and the rapper DMX.

I called my new agent, Karl Rove (who I was able to lure away from his previous job with promises of unlimited power and intellectual stimulation), and told him to get me the gig.
K-Ro (pronounced “crow”), as he preferred to be called, informed me that kickoff was only a half hour away and he was sending a limo.

I arrived at the locker room ten minutes before kick-off, without a prepared speech but enthusiastic; these kids would remember this moment the rest of their lives and I would make it worth every second. I stood outside the door as Martha Stewart finished her warm-up set.

“Now remember, in order for my home recipe breath freshener to work, you have to take it at least thirty minutes after ingesting alcohol, but if used correctly, no police officer can detect the scent on you. Now get out there and kill those motherfuckers!”

The applause was deafening as Martha exited the locker room. She slipped her phone number in my shirt pocket and gave the international “call me” sign as she brushed past me. Before the noise died down I slipped through the door and stood before them. The din grew higher momentarily before my eyes told them to sit down, shut up, and listen.

“You’re just boys. Pathetic little boys. Scared. This isn’t a game. This is war. That’s not a football team out there, it’s the VC. It’s Charlie. You’re gonna go into their village, you’re gonna rape their women, you’re gonna kill their babies!” These kids were scared. I had em. “You’re gonna do whatever you have to do to win this war!”

I turned to one kid, looked like the kicker,”You, you little puke, do you use steroids?”

“No sir, no!” he stammered.

“Why the hell not? You wanna be a fuckin loser?” I looked over at Coach Carroll; he had wet himself.

I kept it up for the next five minutes. When I finished, I looked the team over. It’s amazing how much they had grown in the past few minutes. I knew they were ready.

“Okay, guys, teamwork and sportsmanship on three.”

It’s impossible to describe the sense of pride I felt watching those kids perform on the field of battle. Facing an opponent so strong, the mighty Vandals from the University of Idaho, those brave young men, children really, fought and scratched toward their collective destiny. The ultimate result: USC 38 Idaho 10. Only in Hollywood.

I walked out of the stadium, my feet barely touching the ground, and nearly ran over K-Ro.

“What up, bro?” I asked.

“Forget the restaurant opening,” he said, “it’s not happening. Mike Vick’s in jail.”

“Why?”

“Police found a body on his property,” he said, “it was Snoop Dogg.”

“Mother of God!” I said.

This was the story. I knew this, deep in my soul. It would be the kind of event that, in the proper hands, relayed by the greatest writer this planet, this universe, has ever seen, would shake the moral structure of our great American society, all the way to its foundation. My source at the Los Angeles County Jail, a young starlet I’ll only identify by the first name, “Lindsay”, who was serving 1000 consecutive one-hour sentences for repeated aggravated driving while overly self-aware, had informed me that LAPD and members of the FBI were currently searching the grounds of a Hollywood Hills mansion owned by former NFL superduperstar Mike Vick, having already uncovered the remains of over 5,000 toy poodles, and one labradoodle. The scene she described was so grotesque that I could not shake the image from my mind, even without having witnessed it.

As we sped toward the mansion, driven by my personal chauffer, Danica, K-Ro and I sat in silence, looking out the windows at this beautiful city as we tried to think of happier things to avert our thoughts from the scenes of suffering we were about to experience.

“Stop the car!” I suddenly shouted, “Bum Fight!!!”

“Oh, hell yeah!” K-Ro exclaimed, instantly cheered.

Two homeless boys stood on the sidewalk, both holding sharp stakes, with a crowd of about fifty more homeless men, women and children encircling them. I walked through the screaming mass of smelliness to the edge of the circle.

“Who’s the money on?” I asked the closest dirty bastard. He looked at me like I was insane.

“Ain’t got no money,”the dirty bastard said, “but I got this grocery cart full of cans on the Mexican.”

“I’ll take that bet,” I said, “K-Ro!” K-Ro immediately appeared holding out a small ivory box. He opened it for the dirty bastard, revealing a sterling silver crack pipe engraved with the initials GWB. I looked at the fighters.

“Let’s get it on!”

It wasn’t even close. My guy, a skinny white kid named Billy fought like, well, a Mexican, and poor Jorge never stood a chance. I walked up to Billy and ruffled his hair. He couldn’t have been older than 13.

“Nice moves in there, kid,” I told him, motioning toward the bloodied and dying Jorge, “You earned this.” And I tossed him the sterling silver crack pipe.

“Thanks, mister!” Billy said, genuinely moved.

“Now I have a little job for you,” I told him.

“Anything, sir.”

I wrote some instructions on a card and handed it to Billy.

“Take this grocery cart filled with cans to my hotel,” I ordered, “The address is on that card, along with some instructions. Give it to the concierge when you arrive and he’ll set you up with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s”

“Gee, thanks!”

“Now get outta here, you little ragamuffin!” I told Billy. As he pushed the cart down the street I felt a deep sense of satisfaction; I always feel that way when I help those less fortunate. Just then a police cruiser pulled up behind my limo. I stepped over Jorge’s lifeless body and walked to the cruiser.

“Wow, sir, I’m a big fan!” the officer said, recognizing me, “I’ve got a couple of questions: what happened here and can I get an autograph?”

“I have two answers for you, officer: there was a bum fight and yes you can.”

“That’s awesome,” he said, “bum fight you say?”

“Yeah, see that kid over there?” I pointed the pen toward Billy, “He killed that Mexican.”

“Ouch,” said the officer, “Did you happen to hear about the scene at the Vick place.”

“That’s where we’re headed.”

“Just terrible about those poor animals,” he said, “Someone should kill that son of a bitch.”

“Maybe we should get Billy to,” I joked. He laughed aloud.

“Thanks for the autograph,” he said, “I’ll see you at the Vick place.” He waved and drove away.
I looked at K-Ro and nodded. He nodded back. We both knew it was time to continue our journey, no matter how disturbing the scene might be. A homeless man was busily washing the windows of my limo as I slid in the back seat. K-Ro punched the dirty bastard hard in the kidney and threw him to the ground.

“Get the fuck away from the car, you piece of trash!” He yelled, giving him a kick. As he slid into the seat across from me, I could see the look of dread in his eyes. Like me, K-Ro is an animal lover, and neither of us were looking forward to what we were about to see.

“Let’s go,” I said to Danica, and we continued toward our destiny.

The scene outside the Vick mansion was utter chaos. Mournful cries and shouts of horrified bewilderment rang throughout the compound, echoing across the throngs of news crews and onlookers, a sight seldom seen in our fair country, aside from any time a white, young, cute and white mother goes missing. I turned to K-Ro, who stood teary eyed and shaken, and realized suddenly that something had been amiss since the tragic beginnings of this horrifying story. A young woman standing near me collapsed into my arms, overcome by grief.

“Miss,” I said, “Are you okay?” She slowly opened her eyes and noticed me holding her.

“Oh my goodness,” she sniffled, “I’m a huge fan. Could you sign my breast?”

“Of course.”

“Make it out to Monica,” she said, and suddenly I was overcome with the feeling that we were in extreme danger. I quickly scribbled a two paragraph greeting on her substantial mammary and searched for K-Ro, who was gently swaying arm in arm between Ted Nugent and Larry Craig, who softly sang “Fire and Rain.”

“Keep it above the waist, Craig,” K-Ro said as I approached.

“Come on, bro,” I told K-Ro, “We need to get out of here.”

“Yes sir.”

We slowly made our way through the crowd, stopping frequently for autograph requests and to offer awkward excuses why I haven’t called. At the edge of the gathering we stopped at a vendor selling bottled water and “People Don’t Kill Dogs, Mike Vick Does” t-shirts.

“Gimme a water,” I ordered.

“Can I get a t-shirt?” K-Ro asked, “Look, it says “Free Paris” on the back!”

“Sure, bro,” But I wasn’t really listening, as I was telepathically receiving news reports directly to my brain waves via my iPhone. Every network was reporting live from the Vick mansion; CNN was calling it the greatest gathering of celebrities in the history of mankind. The eyes of the country, no, the world, were cast upon us. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were all in danger. Something was being overlooked.

“Hey K-Ro,” I said, “Who won the war?”

“What war?” He asked.

“You know, Iraq. Or was it Afghanistan? Maybe Iran.” I said.

“We won that years ago,” He said, “Remember that whole “Mission Accomplished” thing? That was my idea. Wait, maybe that was the war on drugs. Or illegal immigration. I don’t remember. How do I look?” He had slipped the t-shirt over his suit. He looked pretty good.

“Good, bro. Call Danica. We need to get outta here.”

“Yes sir.”

As Danica drove us back to the hotel, I wondered if we were all being manipulated. Had we really won the war? Why would Mike Vick get back into dog murdering? What does global warming have to do with peace? There were too many unanswered questions.

“Didn’t Rambo fight for Afghanistan?” K-Ro asked.

More questions.

“Where have you been?” K-Ro said, half worried and half scolding. The same words spoken by any other would have resulted in at least a severe dressing down, but from K-Ro it was easy to recognize the true feeling of concern behind the inquiry.

“You had me worried to death,” he continued, “You can’t call? How can I know you aren’t hurt, or being raped?”

“I had to do some thinking. This Vick story goes deeper than we ever imagined,” I said.

“Always with the work!” K-Ro snapped, “You should eat something. I made muffins.” So that was the heavenly aroma I had detected. K-Ro’s abilities in the kitchen are rivalled only by his almost comically evil contempt for civil liberties.

“I almost forgot,” he added, “Tiger Woods called while you were out. He’s having trouble with his swing and wanted your advice.”

“Was it Tiger or a representative of his?” I asked. My concern was that Tiger’s wife, Elin, who had been sending me notes and emails seeking some sort of liason between us, might have been trying to use the pretense of a meeting with Tiger to meet with me.

“It was Tiger,” he replied, “I spoke with him myself.”

“Set it up,” I ordered. The pressures of the day were starting to wear on me, and I knew I could use the diversion. I had heard that Tiger had was an exceptional athlete, and knew he had potential. An hour with me could transform that potential into championships.

“Bring my Louisville Slugger,” I ordered.

“Your what, sir?” K-Ro asked.

“You know, my baseball bat,” I said.

“Why, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?” K-Ro said.

“How dare you question me!” I snapped, “But if you must know, how do you expect me to counsel Tiger Woods on his swing if I don’t warm up my own swing first?” K-Ro looked perplexed.

“Begging your pardon sir, but Mr. Woods competes in golf, not baseball,” K-Ro informed me. I looked at him for a long time without speaking. Suddenly I was furious with K-Ro. How could he embarrass me like this?

“Don’t you think I realize that, you fool?” I screamed, slapping him across the round cheek. Poor K-Ro fell to the floor cowering, his arms raised to shield his face from further attacks. His pitiful sobs finally penetrated my fury.

“Oh my poor, poor K-Ro,” I cried, “Forgive me my tiny round friend!” I enveloped my friend and servant with my thick arms, pulling his sobbing head into the comfort of my vast chest. There he remained for a few tender moments, his low, almost silent sobs only interrupted by intermittent uncontrollable shuddering. He finally looked up at me, his wide eyes still shiny with tears, and sniffled loudly.

“What is wrong, sir?” he asked, “Something is bothering you.” I was genuinely touched. This pathetic creature, whom I had just attacked with the ferocity I usually reserve for immigrants and activists, was more concerned with my well-being than for his own. Abashed, I quickly stood, dropping his dear head from my arms heavily onto the floor.

“Oh poor K-Ro,” I said, “Poor, pathetic, disgusting, fat, bald, poor K-Ro, how could I strike thee? It is my own confusion that has led to your undeserved punishment. I am unsure of what course to take in the pursuit of this story, which I am sure is to be the Greatest Story Ever Written!”

“You need to take a break, sir,” K-Ro said, soothingly, “Visit with Tiger Woods, help him with his swing, and then revisit this dilemma. Maybe then you’ll see the answers you’re too close to see now.” I knew my friend was right. Man, this guy was good. Not just good. K-Ro is brilliant. I extended a powerful arm toward his pathetic figure, and he smiled. I had a surprise for Tiger, something that would serve as the final piece in the puzzle of his own personal quest for the perfect golf swing.

“By the end of the third or fourth day all the meat had rotted, leaving the room awash in an aroma reminiscent of a Khmer Rouge killing field, and leaving us with only our own bodies with which to satiate our hungers. Oh, the energies we expelled. The sweat! Late that afternoon a pig, probably having escaped from the farm down the road, wandered into the yard. Ashley, half-crazed and hollow-eyed, managed to work her tiny frame through a window above the kitchen sink and ambushed the swine from above, smothering it with her vintage poncho that had hosted her in their deflowering.”

“Who wants punch?” K-Ro asked as he walked into the study carrying a refreshment tray. Upon seeing K-Ro enter the room, Tiger Woods leapt to his feet and quickly moved to the restroom, without excusing himself.

“What did I say?” K-Ro asked, sounding hurt.

“Who knows,” I said, “I was just regaling him with a recount of the retreat I took with the Olsen twins in celebration of their eighteenth birthday.”

Tiger returned looking so pale that I mistook him at first for a very tall Jet Li.

“Tiger, are you okay bro?” I asked.

“Just, um, a bug or something,” he said, sounding unsure. I turned to K-Ro and nodded. He nodded back and quickly exited the study, only to return a moment later carrying a dozen plaster recreations of cuddly, white baby seals, which he lined up neatly across the floor in front of us. Tiger looked on with a quizzical expression. Noticing his puzzled look, I patted him on the shoulder.

“When I was a young man at university,” I explained, “I spent my summers with my Uncle Perciforth, who was not really my uncle, but whom I had met as a child when I worked part-time in his veterinary clinic, where I assisted in shaving various pet parts and cleaning bed pans. Uncle Perciforth left the veterinary business after a particularly nasty clawing from a yeast infected iguana. He set forth into the vast arctic wilderness where he made his living guiding Asian businessmen on baby seal clubbing safaris.” I paused for a moment, studying Tiger, reading his reaction. He simply stared back silently. He appeared not to breathe.

“It was during these summers that I perfected my swing,” I went on, “You cannot possibly imagine the technical perfection required to part a baby seal’s head from it’s cute, cuddly body. Those little guys are tougher than they look.” I extended an arm to K-Ro, who handed me a driver, which I gave to Tiger.

“Go ahead,” I said, motioning at the plaster baby seals, “Give it a go.” Tiger shook his head vigorously, his eyes never leaving mine. I simply stared back sternly, and gestured toward the plaster baby seals again.

“Give it a go,” I repeated.

Tiger, somewhat reluctantly, took the club from my hand and slowly moved in front of the first baby seal. There he stood for an eternity, concentrating, removing all distractions from his thoughts. Then he began his backswing, his eyes never leaving the baby seal, and he let her rip. As he swung through, the baby seal head flew against the wall and the strawberry jam that K-Ro had filled it with exploded throughout the room, covering the three of us with fake baby seal blood.

“Woohoo!” Tiger yelled, pumping his fist.

“Hole in one!” screamed K-Ro. Tiger beamed wildly, his smile lighting the room. He extended a gracious hand.

“Thank you, sir,” He said, and he looked back at the remaining plaster baby seals.

“No problem, bro,” I said, and then gestured at the remaining plaster baby seals, “Go ahead.”

And with that Tiger turned back to the row of plaster baby seals, covering the room with more and more strawberry jam and filling us all with joy.

In the years prior to capturing my worldwide fame, I sometimes found it necessary to seek employment in menial positions as a means to fund the research for my breakthrough biographical survey of Tumzu, the father of tabloid journalism, who lived in ancient Mesopotamia and revealed a homosexual relationship between the politician Gilgamesh and his “friend” Enkidu. My research even uncovered allegations of the pairs’ involvement in the murder of the Bull of Heaven, although this claim remains unsubstantiated. As I conducted my research, before the book went on to become an international sensation catapulting me above all the literary giants throughout history, I became aware that there was much I did not know about other cultures, and this innate ability to understand my own failings, as miniscule as they may be, led me to seek part-time employment teaching ESL at the local community resource center.

Perhaps my greatest personal attribute, aside from my graciousness and humility, is my inherent desire to assist and enrich my fellow man, regardless how pathetic and unworthy he may be, and the most wonderful way to fulfill that desire is through sharing my vast wisdom and wealth of knowledge. Before I had even taught my first class, my heart was filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment.

When I walked into the office of the director of the center, a Mr. Parker, I was beginning to compose a mental narrative, describing the scene to my subconscious to be related to my later self when the time would inevitably come to record my autobiography.

“I parted the doors of the office like a messiah,” I thought, entering the office, “come to share the joy of my word with the ignorant masses.”

Mr. Parker sat behind his desk, fat and balding, wearing a bowtie and shirtsleeves. He resembled a mess I had once left on my table at Denny’s. As he should, he stood when I entered.

“Mr. King,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m glad you made it. I was afraid you had changed your mind. The students are all waiting in your classroom.”

“He was a much smaller man than I,” I thought, “and most likely had never known a woman’s touch.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Parker said.

“Oh, um, nothing,” I said, realizing I had been speaking aloud the entire time, “Please, call me sir.”

“I’m sorry?” he said, “Did you ask me to call you sir?”

“Just a matter of propriety,” I said, “no one uses my name.”

“You do realize that I’m the boss,” he went on, “you’re not my boss.”

“But you call a priest father,” I reasoned, “even though he’s not related. Please, show me to my classroom.”

Obviously astounded by my simple logic, Parker led me down a dreary hallway to the classroom. Through a window in the door I was able to get my first glimpse at the students I would soon be sharing my genius with. I was immediately appalled.

“Look at that!” I snarled through gritted teeth, “They’re all asleep at their desks!”

Horrified, Parker looked into the room, then back at me.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, “They look awake to me.”

“Then why are their eyes closed?” I shouted.

Parker looked momentarily confused.

“They’re Korean,” he finally said.

“Forgive me,” I said, “I don’t watch much television. And never Star Trek.”

Parker opened his mouth, but before he could speak I opened the door. The students all turned at once as I entered, Parker close behind me. It was now clear that the students had been awake the entire time. I turned to Parker and whispered.

“Is the lighting too bright in here?” He mumbled something incoherent so I decided to just begin the lesson. I took the student roll from Parker’s hands. He seemed to have become suddenly ill.

“What the hell is this?” I whispered again to Parker. The list of names was non-sensical.

“Don’t you have a spell-check?” I asked. It was becoming obvious to me that I was working for an incredibly incompetent organization. I decided then to simply wing it.

“Attention class,” I announced, “Due to an administrative error, I was not provided with an accurate student roster. Therefore, I would like each of you to stand, state your name, and tell the class a little about yourselves.”

I gestured to a young man on the front row to rise and waited for him to introduce himself, but he simply stood and looked around at the rest of the students, seemingly confused. I turned to look at Parker, wondering what was wrong, but he had turned ashen.

“Go ahead, young man,” I said to the student, “we’re all waiting.” The student seemed frightened, then began speaking gibberish. I turned again to Parker.

“What the hell is this?” I demanded, “You didn’t tell me I’d be teaching a bunch of near-sighted retards.”

“The class is ESL!” Parker said, “English as a second language!”

“Perhaps these people should learn a first language before trying a second,” I said, “Obviously I’m overqualified for this position.”

Leaving Parker with the class, I departed the resource center, unable to fathom the dire straits in which this country’s education system now found itself. And in that moment my life’s purpose became clear. I would finish my research, I would publish my first masterpiece, I would nail a bunch of hot chicks, and I would spend my life in pursuit of the truth, of enlightenment, of additional wisdom, and I would use all my knowledge and power to open the minds of the long-neglected students of the world.