Worse Than the DMV!
I’m a professional music scholar. If I told you my real name, you’d recognize it immediately. I’m that famous.
I’ve spent the past twenty-five years working on my magnum opus, a documentary which examines the role of the G7 chord in western civilization. The thirty-two seconds of material I’ve finished so far is brilliant, I must say.
My problem is this: the type of work I’m doing requires very expensive and specialized resources—scissors, tape, white glue, that sort of thing—and the guys down at the local trade school, where all of this and more is readily available, have capriciously decided to cut off my access to their facility. They’ve been quite cruel in dealing with me, in fact, and I even overheard one of them refer to me as a cross between Blanche DuBois and Grindl!
My question is for the benefit of misunderstood geniuses everywhere… How do I get people to grasp the historical importance of my work and to start treating me like the creative prodigy I truly am?
Have Always Relied on the Kindness of Strangers
Dear Have Always Relied on the Kindness of Strangers,
I’m actually familiar with that matched set of dimwits over at the trade school. I had one of them, the tall slow one, come over and take a look at my mimeograph machine once, and it was painful watching him work… sort of like watching a monkey have its way with a football, if you know what I mean.
The simple truth is that even if these dull tools whip a one-eighty and let you use their stuff, your project is still doomed. Their incompetence is so toxic and aggressive, it’ll eventually tunnel into your work and devour its very soul. It’s what they do best.
If I were you, I’d give Kinkos a try.
Now please go away. Your letter has given me an overpowering urge to self-medicate… I’d welcome a coma at this point.