I stepped on my bathroom scale the other morning and could not believe the three digits staring up at me.
And I mean that literally — the scale was rigged.
I know this because I’ve been dieting my butt off, and I swear I’ve dropped 20 pounds. So the first thing I did was ask my wife whether she messed with the scale as some kind of prank.
She said no, adding, “Maybe you’re retaining liquids.”
I threw the scale out immediately. Then I went back into the bathroom, took one look in the mirror, and got another shock.
That couldn’t be me in the reflection. No way.
I’ve got more hair than that. Everybody knows it, and people comment on it. I go onto social media and people are asking one another, almost every day: “How does he maintain such a full mane and youthful glow?”
I called my barber and fired him.
It’s not the barber, my wife said. You should take another look in the mirror.
She’s been somewhat out of sorts lately, ever since I went on Nextdoor to wish all my neighbors a happy Independence Day, including “all you scum I wouldn’t speak to IF YOU WERE THE LAST ONES at the picnic.”
Half the time, my wife doesn’t even live with me, and I don’t know where she is. It’s odd, because the marriage is perfect. People ask us what the secret is, and I say it’s hospitality. We open our hearts and our home to others, and we were planning on building a backyard ballroom until our financial advisor told us we were already running up massive debt.
I sued him for negligence and financial fraud.
My wife brought home a couple of refugees sponsored by her church, and I went along with it, even though I think it’s wrong to blame coyotes every time a neighborhood pet disappears. We were having a cup of coffee and a few pastries, and one of them took a second almond croissant. And then, even before he finished it, he reached out and grabbed a bear claw.
There I am, watching it disappear, and between bites, this freeloader starts telling us our country has to offer more help to his country.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I wanted the bear claw!” I said. “You didn’t even say thanks for the croissant, and now you want a third pastry? Get out of my house!”
To calm myself, I slipped into the living room to relax with a book. I picked one that was on a shelf next to three books I’ve written, which made me curious about how sales have been going lately.
So I went to Amazon to check the rankings.
The first book I checked was ranked 3,907,369. I swear on the Bible, which, by the way, was ranked 206 on the bestsellers list.
Really?
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John have been in the ground for what, a couple of thousand years? Nobody can tell you whether any of them knew a Magi from a Musketeer, not to mention that the Roman Empire they worked under was a failed administration. And their book is selling better than mine by a mile?
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That should be on the list of fake miracles, right up there with the loaves and fishes.
My book is a great book. It’s already listed up there with the all-time classics, and it got starred reviews everywhere. At Barnes & Noble, they keep it in the Beautiful Books section. When I was on a book tour, I had the biggest crowds ever. Way bigger than Hemingway. People are still talking about it.
So to cut to the chase, I gave my sales rank a Triple F rating.
Fake.
False.
Fony.
And I fired my book agent.
I checked out some of the books ranked higher than mine — other than the “holy” Bible — and it didn’t take long to figure out what’s going on.
First of all, a lot of the people allegedly “buying” books don’t exist. Somewhere between 30% and 40% of the people who go onto the review section and claim they love Stephen King books are actually dead.
And then you have a lot of people coming into this country illegally, ghastly people, and they are voting in elections and they are voting on books, too, because they’re being put up to it, and being well-compensated, I might add.
Little-known fact: The vote-counting machines and the book-counting machines are made by the same company.
You know what they should call that company?
RIGGED!
Not to be obsessive, but I’ve heard it said that Stephen King doesn’t care for me much, and that’s fine. Water off a duck’s back. My dog has more talent than that guy. All he does is write stories about killers and horrible, sick people.
He should write a book about my neighbor, if he likes deranged people so much. Most neighbors love me; they’re kissing my you-know-what. But then there’s this guy, whom I’m having investigated. I went out to the curb to throw the bathroom scale away, and what do I see? That jackalope is putting his trash can on my property. I’m the one who’s encroaching, he tells me, and I should go to the county offices and check the property records.
Well, it just so happens that I already checked the records, and they’re inaccurate. It figures, because that last county administration was the worst in history. A bunch of corrupt, evil people. Who should have been impeached. They hired incompetents as surveyors, so don’t stand on the street and tell me where I can and can’t put my trash can, because the boundaries are rigged and I’m having them rewritten.
My lawyers are on it, and we will win this case on Day One, guaranteed, with time left over for a round of golf.
Note to self: On the way home, pick up a bathroom scale.
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