One Hour of Fame (Pop!)

There is a manufacturer in this city.  They manufacture something . . . (chew chew chew pop) . . . No.  I can't talk about it.  I've said too much already.

. . .



No.  On the other hand, I must go on.  I've come this far, and my "like"-rs are depending on me not to let them down.


So.  I went to this . . . place . . . today  . . . (chew chew chew) . . . and tried some  . . . (pop) . . . stuff.

. . .

Okay.  It's Wrigley.*  But don't tell anybody I told you that.  When I went in, they made me sign some papers that said I wouldn't say anything to anyone about what I was doing today.  So just pretend you don't know anything, okay?  Please?

(Pop!)

Come to think of it, why don't you sign these papers here promising me you won't tell anybody what you read in this blog entry.  Whew.  Now I'm covered.

Anyway, I really can't tell you exactly what went on at Wrigley's place, but I will tell you that it was an awful lot like being Famous.  I gave several autographs.  Complete strangers wanted to hear what I thought.  People watched me through a one-way mirror, which I hear happens all the time with the paparazzi.  Then, after an hour, I got paid more cashola than I've made from Cambridge Street and T: An MBTA Musical combined!

(chew chew chew)

I'm also pretty sure I have a sex tape now.  Not that anyone will ever know about that.  Because nothing you've read on this blog today leaves this blog.  Right?  Right? 

(chew chew chew)

Right. 

Oh, by the way.  The short list of things I've done that have earned me more cash than Cambridge Street and T combined would also include:

-  helping out a guy on craigslist

- selling CUTCO cutlery

- winning a hand in a game of penny poker

- finding a dime on the sidewalk

- letting some filmmakers borrow my car. 

Other than that, today was pretty special.  Pretty special indeed.

Don't.  Tell.  Anyone.

Pass it on.  

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* I'm sorry, Wrigley.  They forced it out of me.