Velociworld

The Next Big Thing

When I was in 11th grade I had a physical education class designed to teach us ungainly monkeys the finer points of gymnastics. The teacher was a squat former college gymnast with the center of gravity of an armadillo. The lesson, as I recall, was backsprings, and the coach was positioned to spot us as we "kipped", or committed our mass over an imaginary point into the backspring. That point of no return where you throw yourself backwards.

We were spastic in both thought and coordination, however, and most of us intentionally peaked too quickly or too late, the better to exasperate and enrage our coach.

"You're kipping too soon!" he would howl, and force us to repeat the exercise. Again and again. "You're kipping too, soon, goddamit!" We would stare at him as if befuddled, then proceed to pull jockstraps and play grab ass, in order to explain to him our disinterest in his project.

I mention this in order to provide an example of my attention deficit disorder. My topic was the Next Big Thing. I've pondered this issue, and decided it is me. Of course, I 've held this immutable opinion since I was two years old, and bit my infant brother for no earthly reason. The fucking interloper. And yes, I realize this is a rather dissonant position. After all, my salad days are but a hazy memory. My future? Fucking Ada, Intrepids, I had enough love affairs with controlled substances and booze to be convinced my liver would struggle to filter even archangel perspiration. Well, perhaps not love affairs. But there was some heavy fucking petting and stinkfinger going on. Mostly when I was alone.

Someone has to be the Next Big Thing. I always tell myself that while lying in the hammock, creating string figures (my Jacob's Ladder is passable. My Jack in the Pulpit is fucking mesmerizing. Cup and Saucer? Fag. Don't do it). The public is always hot for something, anything, other than what it saw five minutes ago. That's why the Sex Pistols were awesome until they actually recorded something. After that? Fuck 'em. The god-rotting sell-outs.

Follow me here. Pacific Coast Highway, 2 too many martinis, you're doing fine.

Because Barack Obama kipped too soon. One thing about Messiahs: you go promising the holy goods, you'd better fucking deliver. The last person who promised this much milk and honey and didn't deliver was named Joseph Smith, and he had an unwanted love affair with five lead balls in Carthage, Illinois. I'm not sure if stinkfinger was involved.

Not that that is Mr. Obama's fate, of course. But political flame-outs are equally painful, I would imagine. And final.

The point is, anything the man delivers will be less than that which his formerly mesmerized apostles expected. He cannot win anything other than that presidency at this point. He will find governance, real honest to God governance, very tough and lonely. No longer will he have senatorial colleagues to share blame with. The buck stops There. I honestly don't wish the job on anyone.

All to say: you might as well invest your time in me. I'm the Next Big Thing. And I hope to not only wring 15 minutes of fame out of that, but $298,453. US dollars, that is. It's an arbitrary number, but I like the way it looks.

Tip Jar? Are you fucking kidding me? Email me. We'll work something out. I'm always willing to be molested feted and paid handsomely for it in Bermuda or the Caymans.

As the Man said: Help me help me. Or something like that.

UPDATE: I believe I've been overthinking this thing. Perhaps a Velociraffle is in order. If I can get 300 people to throw in $1,000 each.... no, wait. If I can get 300,000 people to throw in one lousy dollar each (that puts the refrigerator box inhabitant cohort in play) the winner can shave my body. Head to toe. Stem to stern. That includes a Brazilian wax.

I'll consider an anal bleaching as well, but the raffle winner must be female, and wear a nippleless leather bra. And I'll need references. Lots of references. And pix. Lots of pix.