A Blue Jean Millionaire.

 

Well, my little poppits;

It’s late in the day, for me.

I’ve served up the spinach dill pickle soup and the chocolate cake, and in return I got 3 pieces of Dominoes pizza and two dollars and four cents.  Much to my surprise all the soup is gone.  I had 2 people turn up their noses at it, but everyone else had large bowls so I ladled it in like there was no tomorrow.

And for me, there WILL be no tomorrow. For cooking, anyways.  I’m tired. I’m weary. I’m burnt out.  Today someone gave me several bunches of romain lettuce, and I ought to be able to think of something to do with them tomorrow. But I can’t.  The well is dry.  I’m out of funds for community meals until August. So no more cornbread or soups or stews or casseroles for the rest of this week.  I’m too pooped to pop.

But don’t forget that this coming Sunday is our monthly Potluck.  So please bring something to share.

Besides, I may very soon become filthy rich – so rich that Amy and I can afford to buy a house up in, say, Park City, and hobnob with the noblesse oblige . . . 

It’s this way –

While I was out with my sign at City Hall this afternoon (after getting a pedicure across the street for 30 dollars) an old guy comes up to me and starts rambling on about how his mother took him to Nevada when he was little and wrote poetry – I thought he was one of your regular old gassers, just looking for someone to talk to.  His name is Ernie.

Then he asked if I would write his biography in verse.  He wants thirty volumes.  Yes, he said thirty volumes.  I sighed and told him kindly that such a project would cost him way more than he can afford.  To which he said, grinning:  “Aw, I can afford whatever I want – I’m a blue jean millionaire.”

I had no idea what a blue jean millionaire was.  (I looked it up later – it’s a book by Charles Whyte on how to become rich with minimum funds and long range investments.)

So to get him to put up or shut up I told him I’d give him a ten stanza poem on any subject he likes for a hundred bucks.  He didn’t bat and eye. He said he’d have to check with his wife and then he’d Venmo me the money and I could send him the poem. And if he liked it we’d begin our lucrative project.

Of course I realize that the guy is probably a loose screw par excellence, but what if . . . 

This crazy old world is full of unforeseen twists and turns.  Some good, most bad.  So maybe this is one of the good twists . . . 

But probably not.

So I won’t loose any sleep over it.

Speaking of which – I went to buy more Melatonin, but the labels all say the same thing:  for temporary use only.  I’ve already gone through a whole bottle in three weeks, so I’m going to lay off.  Instead I’ll try a glass of warm milk in the middle of the night (along with some Tylenol) and see how that works.

So tomorrow you’re on your own, folks.  I’ll be feeding myself leftover pizza and plenty of romaine salad.

Hail and farewell.

Rufus T. Firefly.