Forget this writing stuff -- I was always destined to be a magician. This I discovered the other day when I dazzled my 3-year-old son, Luke, with a spectacular trick of my invention: I showed him a quarter, rubbed my hands together and made it vanish. Then I pulled the quarter out from behind his ear, making him giggle with delight.
Sure, shake your head, thinking you know how I did the trick. It's more involved than you'd think. I didn't, as you might expect, hide the quarter between two fingers, then pretend like I pulled it out of his ear.
I vanished the quarter thanks to actual magical powers bestowed on me via a deal I made selling my soul to a dark demonic lord Magikor I encountered by playing either Ouija Board of Chutes & Ladders (don't remember which).
As for pulling the quarter out of his ear (the deal with Magikor only gave me the power to make quarters disappear, not find them behind kid's ears), I had to do some legwork. As the boy slept I conducted amateur surgery on him, creating a kangaroo pouch behind his ear, which I used to slip the quarter into once it healed up. So the fact is, the boy had an actual quarter behind his ear for several days before I pulled the magic trick.
Thus emboldened with my powers, I hereby announce my retirement from all things writing in order to become a full-time magician.
When I take this act on the road, I'll need to think of a few more wrinkles to round out my act. Because let's face it, making quarters disappear will only dazzle the crowds for the first 90 minutes or so.
I'm thinking I'll start small, first as a house act for a fried chicken joint. Perhaps Lucky Wishbone in Tucson or Raising Cane's in Vegas. I will set up shop in the back of the store and perform such Copperfield-esque showstoppers such as making entire plates of chicken strips disappear as diners are either distracted by my lovely assistant or asked to close their eyes for three seconds as I stuff my face.
Weight management will be an issue if I'm consuming so much fried chicken, so I'll need to ingest some tapeworms in order to maintain my statuesque physique. Exercise is out as a weight management option because no one wants to see a magician on the elliptical or leg press -- it ruins the mystique. Plus, gym time takes away from PS3 time.
Once I get extremely famous, all the cliched things will start to happen to me. I'll get all egotistical, bang Fiona Apple, start doing smack to take the edge off and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering how success and money have driven me to the edge of the void.
So I'll take the next logical step: Starring in TV specials that have nothing whatsoever to do with magic. In one episode I'll lock myself inside giant fishbowls of ice in Times Square, and in another I'll hold my breath for 45 minutes. The show will be called "How Exactly Is This Magic Again?" and it will rock.
I told you I have connections on getting you the tapeworms. I just had to sell a few severed toes first to this guy from... oh wait. I can't tell you that.
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