Tuesday, June 7, 2016
Sometimes the cost of living as a cripple can really bring a guy down. Like I just had to fork over $120 for a new goddam wheelchair safety belt!
At times like that I’m filled with melancholy and I reflect back with regret on some of the poor financial decisions I made in my life, especially in my adolescence. Like instead of being a broke-ass writer, I should have channeled my youthful energy into doing something that would’ve made me really really fucking rich!
And maybe I shouldn’t have blown the one and only chance I had in my life to obtain my very own free copy of Barbi Benton’s record album, personally autographed by Barbi herself.
Unlike me, when Barbi Benton was young she made a very wise career decision designed to make her really really fucking rich. She became Hugh Hefner’s girlfriend. That’s a really high-paying job, especially nowadays. Barbi was uniquely qualified for the position, if you know what I mean. I’m sure when the other applicants in the waiting room of the personnel office got a load of her cleavage, they all threw up their arms in defeat and went home. No contest.
So one afternoon in the 1970s I was at a department store with my mother and I went to the record section. But the record section was crowded as hell. There was a big hullabaloo going on. So I went to check it out. This woman saw me and elected herself to be the one to clear a path for me. She parted the wall of bodies like Moses and there was buxom Barbie perched on a stool, her album on display beside her. And then the woman said, “Barbi, look!” And she pointed to me. Barbi’s eyes met mine. I don’t remember what Barbi and I said to each other but I believe it was something like, “Hi.”
The next thing I remember was getting the hell out of there fast because I could feel a cripple photo op coming on— Barbi decides to make my day by posing with me and her album. And the heartwarming photo goes out on the newswires all over the world. And my friends give me shit about it for the rest of my life.
But oh how I now wish I would have stuck around long enough to get an autographed album. I probably could’ve even gotten one for free— the pity discount.
It could be worth a bundle today. How many autographed Barbi Benton albums can there still be in existence? It could be one of those items of memorabilia that’s so worthless that it eventually becomes priceless, like a Monkees lunchbox.
You never know. Sometimes silly shit like that ends up being worth more than the Mona Lisa. I could auction off my autographed Barbi Benton album to the highest bidder and buy enough damn ridiculously jacked up wheelchair safety belts to choke a horse.
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