Bad choices equal hard times

I need some income. I’m not kidding. The writing thing has not turned into the major score I had hoped, and I’m pretty sure there won’t be anything for me in Michael Jackson’s will — not since that day I saw him hitchhiking with his dog outside Winnemucca and slowed down like I was going to stop, then took off laughing just before he reached the pickup. In hindsight, that may not have been my smartest move.

I did have some money put away, but I’m starting to think it might not be enough. I mean it wasn’t enough before the economy tanked, so I’m not kidding myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken all my blackmail dough and invested it with this friend of a friend, this cat named Benji or Bernie or whatever. That was in November. I’ve been trying to call him to see where I stand, but nobody’s answering the phone. He makes me show up there in person, he’s going to be sorry.

Looks like all that cash and cocaine I funneled to the Norm Coleman campaign isn’t going to pay off either. My fallback position has been always been landing a cushy job as a Senate page, maybe sell a little blow on the side. I thought my generosity would help them look past the fact that I’m 58 years old. Who knew Stuart Smalley had the stones to stay in the race for eight months and eventually pull it out? Hey, those are the breaks. You win some and you lose some.

But I am going to need some work. Something doesn’t open up pretty soon, I’ll have to start calling in some IOUs. I have plenty of them, believe me. There’s that guy down in Honduras, I once took a bullet for him in a bar fight at this dive called Carmelita’s just outside Puerto Cortes. I hear he’s done pretty well for himself since, got elected president. Soon as I finish breakfast, I’ll give Manny Zelaya a jingle, remind him of old times.