What a waste of a lunch hour. I spent nearly all of it stuck inside a clock shop. For a place that sells time, they sure do steal a lot of it. Someone should look into their operation. After queuing for twenty minutes I finally got to the front, slammed my clock on the counter and said ‘I’m not happy.’
‘What seems to be the problem?’ asked the man wearing a tie with three clocks on it – one for London, one for Tokyo and one for New York.
‘Well I bought this clock from you yesterday and it’s stopped working.’
‘Did you have it on all day?’ he said.
‘Of course, that’s the whole point.’
‘Well that’s your problem right there.’ he said. ‘It’s a 24 hour clock.’
‘But I don’t want a clock that only lasts for a day. I want one that will last forever.’ I cried.
He lifted up a box from beneath the counter and said ‘You’ll need a digital one then. We’ve got an offer on at the moment – two for one on all digital clocks.’
‘I don’t need two. I need one. One clock.’
‘Say no more.’ he said and slipped me a floppy disc. The queue was getting restless.
‘What the hell is this?’ I asked, looking at the disc.
‘Well you’ll need to upload it first, but I can assure you that will one will last forever. Never needs winding either.’
‘But it’s on a floppy disc. My computer doesn’t even have a drive for that anymore.’
‘Yeah, we don’t sell many of these. Most modern computers come with clocks already built in these days.'
The line of people waiting to return items was beginning to resemble a mob. Somehow a couple of them had managed to find flaming torches. 'Please hurry up.' one of them shouted 'My windup clock keeps telling me it's time to die.'
The man with the three-clocked tie took no notice of the chaos unfolding in his shop. 'Maybe I can interest you in this watch instead.' he said. 'There’s 25% off all watches at the moment.’
‘But it only goes up to nine o’clock!’ I yelled. My patience was long lost. ‘Just give me a clock that will last more than a day, goes all the way up to midnight and doesn’t live inside a floppy disc.’
‘I have just the one for you, sir.’ he said, taking the shop’s own clock off the wall. ‘I’ll even throw in this travel clock for free, but I must warn you that it only works on planes and trains. We’re working on a boat one, but hour engineers aren’t optimistic that it can be done. That’ll be £9.99.’
I paid the man and began to leave. As I was nearing the door he shouted out ‘Don’t
forget, the clocks go back tomorrow night.’
‘I know.’ I replied.
‘Good.’ he said ‘We’ll be around at about two to pick them up.’
Jason, Clapham.
302
When people got bored and stopped using the internet, Google came to me. They came to beg. They wanted me to fix it, to make it better. I told them to just let it rest for a while, let people catch up on their board games. Straight away they knew that I'd been paid by the board game companies to say that, and so, they offered to double whatever Hasbro had promised me. Always being prepared, I had the solution ready - new emoticons.
Here are the international emoticons for:
Here are the international emoticons for:
| __&__ | "I've fallen on the ice and I can't get up." |
| A * * -8 | "A snowman is attacking my tent." |
| H_O_H | "There's a boulder on the rugby pitch. Someone call the police!" |
| ~~\o/~~ | "I see a drowning man, but I can't swim, so he will have to drown." |
| SSS $ | "A gang of snakes are burning another snake at the stake. It's not God's work." |
| (}< ### | "I've developed x-ray vision, but all I can see are traintracks." |
| ^A^A+A^A^ | "Bury me in the mountains, papa." |
| >-ii-< iiii | "Go fetch mother, a giant crab is attacking the penguins." |
| [____i]i | "The only man I've ever loved is in prison. Now we have to make love through a fence." |
| <^> - - [] [] | "Don't bother coming into work today - Aliens are attacking the city." |
| i-\ H~~^~~ | "Jumping the shark." |
| ~Q_ | "One of my sperm has escaped and now he's snorting lines of coke." |
| ~n=n''- IIIII | "There's a wolf at my door and my house is made of sticks. What the hell was I thinking?" |
303
“I’m leaving. I can’t take this anymore.”
“Ten.”
“You never talk to me.”
“Nine.”
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. What’s wrong with you?”
“Eight.”
“After everything I’ve done for you it’s the least you can do. Just talk to me.”
“Seven.”
“I’ve stood by you, haven’t I? Who asked her father to lend you the money to start your own business? Me. It’s always me.”
“Six.”
“Did I try to talk you out of it? Did I ever use the words 'A karaoke bar that only plays Love Will Tear Us Apart wouldn’t work'? No, because I loved you.”
“Five.”
“And when you disappeared for six months without telling anyone, did I find comfort with another man? Did I not wait for you? Was I angry when you came back?”
“Four.”
“Even though you’d spent half a year in isolation trying to copyright every possible song that could be written in the future.”
“Three.”
“And did I laugh at you when you’d only written songs that already existed?”
“Two.”
“What happened to you? What happened to the man who loved me, the man who said he’d die without me?”
“One.”
“Well I guess he’s gone, and so am I.”
“Zero.”
Emma, Manchester.
“Ten.”
“You never talk to me.”
“Nine.”
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. What’s wrong with you?”
“Eight.”
“After everything I’ve done for you it’s the least you can do. Just talk to me.”
“Seven.”
“I’ve stood by you, haven’t I? Who asked her father to lend you the money to start your own business? Me. It’s always me.”
“Six.”
“Did I try to talk you out of it? Did I ever use the words 'A karaoke bar that only plays Love Will Tear Us Apart wouldn’t work'? No, because I loved you.”
“Five.”
“And when you disappeared for six months without telling anyone, did I find comfort with another man? Did I not wait for you? Was I angry when you came back?”
“Four.”
“Even though you’d spent half a year in isolation trying to copyright every possible song that could be written in the future.”
“Three.”
“And did I laugh at you when you’d only written songs that already existed?”
“Two.”
“What happened to you? What happened to the man who loved me, the man who said he’d die without me?”
“One.”
“Well I guess he’s gone, and so am I.”
“Zero.”
Emma, Manchester.
301
When Rosemary left Javier he became filled with despair, the kind of despair which quickly turns to the most intense dull sadness. His days were occupied with gentle weeping, and sleepless nights struggled to pass. He hid the sadness from his friends, because it seemed like the British thing to do, even though his broken heart pumped Spanish blood. Nobody noticed his cries for help whenever he declined a social invitation with the words ‘I’m watching the Sopranos’, even though he’d often stated his dislike for the show in the past. Always on the verge of doing something dramatic and dangerous in his mind, he never got passed the getting out of bed stage. The closest he came to self harm was the time he held a pillow over his face, but he found the attack far too relaxing and fell asleep.
Nine months later, on a fresh winter morning, Javier was sitting alone on a park bench. Watching the pigeons and eating an apple Danish pastry he began to whistle. Suddenly his sadness lifted. The grey cloud that had been pressing on his lungs for three quarters of a year was gone and he could breathe easy. Although many would come to the conclusion that nine months is the exact amount of time is takes to recover from heartache, Javier could think only of the pastry.
Never wanting to be sad again, Javier took to the study of pastries, and to a lesser extent, cakes. After a year of hard work he became one of the all time great pastry chefs. In his eyes, each and every dessert he baked was a miracle capable of curing any form of sadness, from grief to loneliness. Knowing this gave him great responsibility, and so, he opened the world’s first free bakery.
The bakery was a success, Javier was happy again and his life had a newfound sense of purpose. There was only one problem – his bakery was in his home town, where everybody knew him. Every day men and women would come to the bakery and make small talk. ‘How are you?’ they’d say. ‘What’s going on? I hear you broke up with Rosemary. How are you coping? Do you think you’ll get back together?’ Little did he know that the sadness had become a part of him, like the blood running through his veins, hidden away and forgotten about until a cut or a graze. The daily wave of questions about Rosemary was slicing at his skin and he could feel the sadness leaking out again.
Javier did the only thing that seemed logical – he left the country and left the continent, building a small bakery at the foot of the world’s seventh tallest mountain. It would be nearly four years before he had his first customer, but once news got out about the free pastries Javier’s bakery become the most talked about in the world. Word of mouth is a powerful tool, but when that word is ‘free’ people become crazed. Men, women and children, sad and happy alike, came from across the world to sample Javier’s mythical pastries, but he was just one man.
Demand smothered supply, meaning that the bakery was open for just one minute a day – the final moment before dawn became sunrise, after that there was nothing left. People would queue for days, sometimes weeks just to get their hands on one of one of Javier’s croissants.
Javier would often lie in bed wondering if his pastries were the best in the world. Why would people travel thousands of miles if they weren’t? Maybe his customers only queued for days at a time because the desserts were free. He needed to know for sure, and so, one morning, many years after Javier had tasted that Apple Danish on a park bench, he unlocked the door of his bakery and let the first fifty customers in. What they saw on the wall drove them to madness: ‘All Pastries $1’. Javier decided that a dollar was a reasonable amount to pay for the best pastry in the world. If people were willing to pay that dollar he would be re-assured of his skill as a chef. What Javier hadn’t anticipated was the collective mind of a group of people who had been waiting for ten days on the promise of free snacks. The price was irrelevant, the sign could have said one cent or a million Euros, and the reaction would still have been the same. Men, women and children began to tear the place apart, for reasons which Javier would never learn, many of them had come equipped with baseball bats and petrol cans. In the seconds it took for dawn to become sunrise, Javier’s bakery became nothing more than a pile of burning planks turning to charcoal at the bottom of the world’s seventh tallest mountain.
As Javier looked down at the rubble and his broken dream he saw the last Apple Danish he would ever bake, squashed and broken. Picking it up with the plastic tong attached to his belt, he placed the pastry in cellophane bag. He wanted to be alone. Pushing through the crowd he began to march up the mountain. After six hours of walking he looked down at where his bakery once stood. There were still thousands of people waiting, looking like ants, unaware that they were queuing for nothing. Javier began to feel sad again. As he raised the apple Danish to his lips, ready to seal up his pain, he started to feel comforted by his sadness. It had been a long time since he’d felt this badly, it was like being re-united with an old friend. Nostalgia, even for terrible things, is better than nothing.
Upward he climbed, guided only by his subconscious, for what could have been days. Time had been replaced by sadness. Finally, when there was no place left to climb, Javier gathered his thoughts. He’d reached the top of the world’s seventh tallest mountain. He had failed in curing sadness for all mankind through pastries and cakes, but he’d climbed a very tall mountain. It was an acceptable consolation prize. What should have been the loneliest place in the world was slightly less so, because Javier wasn’t the only person at the top of this mountain. Across from him, in a moon white wedding dress, was Rosemary. She was crying. Sitting down beside her, he asked:
‘Run away from a wedding?’
‘Yes.’ she sobbed.
‘Your’s?’
She nodded. ‘I guess you want to be alone. I’ll leave.’ he said. ‘Would you like some of this before I go?’ he asked, offering Rosemary his apple Danish. Accepting it she broke it in half and handed him the bigger piece. After taking a bite Rosemary stopped crying and chewed in silence. A minute later she spoke the words Javier had been waiting to hear for nearly six years.
‘This is the best apple Danish I’ve ever tasted.’
Javier smiled, as he began to descend the mountain Rosemary called out to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said ‘I’ve missed you, you know?’ Putting her hand on his neck she pulled him closer to her, and they kissed. When it was over Javier looked down at the apple Danish in his hand, thought to himself for a moment, and then threw it away. As they both watched it fall hundreds of feet, Rosemary took Javier’s hand.
The sun began to set, casting shades of blood red onto Rosemary's dress. They kissed again. He tasted the pastry on her tongue and he was happy. It really was the best pastry in the world. She began to say the words Javier had been waiting to hear for nearly six years and nine months.
‘I never stopped…’ But the next two words were lost in a scream, as Javier pushed Rosemary off the seventh tallest mountain in the world.
Oscar, Barcelona.
Nine months later, on a fresh winter morning, Javier was sitting alone on a park bench. Watching the pigeons and eating an apple Danish pastry he began to whistle. Suddenly his sadness lifted. The grey cloud that had been pressing on his lungs for three quarters of a year was gone and he could breathe easy. Although many would come to the conclusion that nine months is the exact amount of time is takes to recover from heartache, Javier could think only of the pastry.
Never wanting to be sad again, Javier took to the study of pastries, and to a lesser extent, cakes. After a year of hard work he became one of the all time great pastry chefs. In his eyes, each and every dessert he baked was a miracle capable of curing any form of sadness, from grief to loneliness. Knowing this gave him great responsibility, and so, he opened the world’s first free bakery.
The bakery was a success, Javier was happy again and his life had a newfound sense of purpose. There was only one problem – his bakery was in his home town, where everybody knew him. Every day men and women would come to the bakery and make small talk. ‘How are you?’ they’d say. ‘What’s going on? I hear you broke up with Rosemary. How are you coping? Do you think you’ll get back together?’ Little did he know that the sadness had become a part of him, like the blood running through his veins, hidden away and forgotten about until a cut or a graze. The daily wave of questions about Rosemary was slicing at his skin and he could feel the sadness leaking out again.
Javier did the only thing that seemed logical – he left the country and left the continent, building a small bakery at the foot of the world’s seventh tallest mountain. It would be nearly four years before he had his first customer, but once news got out about the free pastries Javier’s bakery become the most talked about in the world. Word of mouth is a powerful tool, but when that word is ‘free’ people become crazed. Men, women and children, sad and happy alike, came from across the world to sample Javier’s mythical pastries, but he was just one man.
Demand smothered supply, meaning that the bakery was open for just one minute a day – the final moment before dawn became sunrise, after that there was nothing left. People would queue for days, sometimes weeks just to get their hands on one of one of Javier’s croissants.
Javier would often lie in bed wondering if his pastries were the best in the world. Why would people travel thousands of miles if they weren’t? Maybe his customers only queued for days at a time because the desserts were free. He needed to know for sure, and so, one morning, many years after Javier had tasted that Apple Danish on a park bench, he unlocked the door of his bakery and let the first fifty customers in. What they saw on the wall drove them to madness: ‘All Pastries $1’. Javier decided that a dollar was a reasonable amount to pay for the best pastry in the world. If people were willing to pay that dollar he would be re-assured of his skill as a chef. What Javier hadn’t anticipated was the collective mind of a group of people who had been waiting for ten days on the promise of free snacks. The price was irrelevant, the sign could have said one cent or a million Euros, and the reaction would still have been the same. Men, women and children began to tear the place apart, for reasons which Javier would never learn, many of them had come equipped with baseball bats and petrol cans. In the seconds it took for dawn to become sunrise, Javier’s bakery became nothing more than a pile of burning planks turning to charcoal at the bottom of the world’s seventh tallest mountain.
As Javier looked down at the rubble and his broken dream he saw the last Apple Danish he would ever bake, squashed and broken. Picking it up with the plastic tong attached to his belt, he placed the pastry in cellophane bag. He wanted to be alone. Pushing through the crowd he began to march up the mountain. After six hours of walking he looked down at where his bakery once stood. There were still thousands of people waiting, looking like ants, unaware that they were queuing for nothing. Javier began to feel sad again. As he raised the apple Danish to his lips, ready to seal up his pain, he started to feel comforted by his sadness. It had been a long time since he’d felt this badly, it was like being re-united with an old friend. Nostalgia, even for terrible things, is better than nothing.
Upward he climbed, guided only by his subconscious, for what could have been days. Time had been replaced by sadness. Finally, when there was no place left to climb, Javier gathered his thoughts. He’d reached the top of the world’s seventh tallest mountain. He had failed in curing sadness for all mankind through pastries and cakes, but he’d climbed a very tall mountain. It was an acceptable consolation prize. What should have been the loneliest place in the world was slightly less so, because Javier wasn’t the only person at the top of this mountain. Across from him, in a moon white wedding dress, was Rosemary. She was crying. Sitting down beside her, he asked:
‘Run away from a wedding?’
‘Yes.’ she sobbed.
‘Your’s?’
She nodded. ‘I guess you want to be alone. I’ll leave.’ he said. ‘Would you like some of this before I go?’ he asked, offering Rosemary his apple Danish. Accepting it she broke it in half and handed him the bigger piece. After taking a bite Rosemary stopped crying and chewed in silence. A minute later she spoke the words Javier had been waiting to hear for nearly six years.
‘This is the best apple Danish I’ve ever tasted.’
Javier smiled, as he began to descend the mountain Rosemary called out to him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said ‘I’ve missed you, you know?’ Putting her hand on his neck she pulled him closer to her, and they kissed. When it was over Javier looked down at the apple Danish in his hand, thought to himself for a moment, and then threw it away. As they both watched it fall hundreds of feet, Rosemary took Javier’s hand.
The sun began to set, casting shades of blood red onto Rosemary's dress. They kissed again. He tasted the pastry on her tongue and he was happy. It really was the best pastry in the world. She began to say the words Javier had been waiting to hear for nearly six years and nine months.
‘I never stopped…’ But the next two words were lost in a scream, as Javier pushed Rosemary off the seventh tallest mountain in the world.
Oscar, Barcelona.
300
I’ve always had a strange relationship with jokes. There was a time when I didn’t understand them at all. The first joke I ever heard was the one about the chicken crossing road. Over twenty years have passed since then and I still don’t get it. I remember when I was eight years old my grandfather asked me ‘When is a door not a door?’ I didn’t know. ‘When it’s ajar.’ he said. I laughed, but I would be close to sixteen before I worked it out.
Now, as a grown man, I understand jokes too well, so much so that I cannot be amused by a single one. I was on the bus this morning when I overheard a man telling a woman a joke. I’m sure you’ve all heard it before, it’s the one where Superman is flying over Metropolis one day when he sees Wonder Woman lying naked on a rooftop with her legs spread open. To cut a long story short, Superman attempts to have sex with her quickly without her noticing only to end up having anal sex with the Invisible Man.
Out of pity for the man telling the joke I had to interrupt. For over ten minutes I had to explain why Superman should have been able to see the Invisible Man, because his range of vision is far superior to our own, although it’s often debated whether it extends to thermal vision. Still, even if he couldn’t see the Invisible Man he would have definitely heard two heartbeats, making it clear that Wonder Woman wasn’t alone. Also, Superman is no fool, when confronted by another superhero who is naked and screaming in sexual bliss on a rooftop, questions would surely be raised in his head. However, the most incredible flaw of this whole setup makes the scientific faults irrelevant. Superman, by his very nature, doesn’t fly around raping people. It just doesn’t add up.
Jules, Brighton.
Now, as a grown man, I understand jokes too well, so much so that I cannot be amused by a single one. I was on the bus this morning when I overheard a man telling a woman a joke. I’m sure you’ve all heard it before, it’s the one where Superman is flying over Metropolis one day when he sees Wonder Woman lying naked on a rooftop with her legs spread open. To cut a long story short, Superman attempts to have sex with her quickly without her noticing only to end up having anal sex with the Invisible Man.
Out of pity for the man telling the joke I had to interrupt. For over ten minutes I had to explain why Superman should have been able to see the Invisible Man, because his range of vision is far superior to our own, although it’s often debated whether it extends to thermal vision. Still, even if he couldn’t see the Invisible Man he would have definitely heard two heartbeats, making it clear that Wonder Woman wasn’t alone. Also, Superman is no fool, when confronted by another superhero who is naked and screaming in sexual bliss on a rooftop, questions would surely be raised in his head. However, the most incredible flaw of this whole setup makes the scientific faults irrelevant. Superman, by his very nature, doesn’t fly around raping people. It just doesn’t add up.
Jules, Brighton.
299
I could never understand what people were talking about in films when they said “Get me some Benjamins” or “I got a wallet full of Washington.” I hoped there’d be a web site explaining which presidents were on all the different bills, but all I could find on the internet was porn and erection pills. My only option was a first class ticket to the American treasury.
I arrived first thing on Monday. Sneaking in was very easy, because there was a free tour of the building fifteen times a day. My tour guide said “If you’ve got any questions during the tour, please don’t hesitate to ask.” I took this as my opportunity to find out some information, and so I asked “Which presidents are on all the bills?” He said that he wasn’t sure. He knew that Lincoln was on a $5 or $10 note, but he’d have to check.
“I don’t have time.” I said. “Take me to the man in charge.”
I was led into a room two and a half miles beneath the ground where an old man sat alone, stacks of paper on his desk and a permanent marker pen in his hand.
“I can see you’re very busy, so I won’t take up much of your time.” I said, watching him draw the dollar sign on a half completed $1 bill. “I’ve just come to find out which presidents are on the different bills.” Without looking up at me, he slid open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a book called “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why”.
“Thanks.” I said, lifting the heavy book and placing it in my bag.
As I began to leave the room I realised I’d probably never meet this man again, and so, I decided to pitch him an idea I’d long been holding.
“Have you ever thought about making a ninety-nine cent note to save on change? You know, for things that cost $1.99 and that?” He stopped drawing. Looking up at me, as he took off his glasses, he said:
“Son, that’s the best goddamn idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Really?” I asked, wondering if he was being sarcastic and his American accent was terrible at it.
“It’s so good I’m gonna start making them right now!”
“Wow” I said. “Which president are you going to put on it?”
His reply was a long and boring one, to tell it in full detail would only send you to sleep as it almost did to me. To cut a long story short he had taken this job thirty nine years ago. Fresh out of college with a degree in Arts and Crafts, he needed to earn a quick buck. He dreamed of becoming a comic book artist, but nobody was hiring. One morning he opened the newspaper to see the words “Artist? Want to make a lot of money?” written in dark bold lettering. The rest I’m sure you can work out yourself.
For the first time in thirty nine years he was confronted with chance to draw something other than a dead president.
“Son, stay here while I draft something up.”
An hour passed, an hour in which I read the first seventy-five pages of a book called “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why”, but still I was only able find out that George Washington was on the one dollar bill.
“Well, here it is” he said, beckoning me over to his desk. There I saw the world’s first ninety-nine cent bill. Unsure of what to make of it, I asked:
“Are you please with it?”
“For the first time in nearly four decades I’ve drawn something from my heart. I know happiness and job fulfilment I’ve only dreamed of.” A smile as wide as Kansas crossed his face. “Now I can die a happy man.” He was dead.
Worrying that I could somehow get the blame for this, I grabbed the 99c note and ran back to the first floor. I returned home on Monday evening, having had enough hours on the flight to complete the book “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why” and learn everything I’d set out to discover. The first and last 99c dollar was just a happy bonus. Here it is:
Jerry, London.
I arrived first thing on Monday. Sneaking in was very easy, because there was a free tour of the building fifteen times a day. My tour guide said “If you’ve got any questions during the tour, please don’t hesitate to ask.” I took this as my opportunity to find out some information, and so I asked “Which presidents are on all the bills?” He said that he wasn’t sure. He knew that Lincoln was on a $5 or $10 note, but he’d have to check.
“I don’t have time.” I said. “Take me to the man in charge.”
I was led into a room two and a half miles beneath the ground where an old man sat alone, stacks of paper on his desk and a permanent marker pen in his hand.
“I can see you’re very busy, so I won’t take up much of your time.” I said, watching him draw the dollar sign on a half completed $1 bill. “I’ve just come to find out which presidents are on the different bills.” Without looking up at me, he slid open the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a book called “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why”.
“Thanks.” I said, lifting the heavy book and placing it in my bag.
As I began to leave the room I realised I’d probably never meet this man again, and so, I decided to pitch him an idea I’d long been holding.
“Have you ever thought about making a ninety-nine cent note to save on change? You know, for things that cost $1.99 and that?” He stopped drawing. Looking up at me, as he took off his glasses, he said:
“Son, that’s the best goddamn idea I’ve ever heard.”
“Really?” I asked, wondering if he was being sarcastic and his American accent was terrible at it.
“It’s so good I’m gonna start making them right now!”
“Wow” I said. “Which president are you going to put on it?”
His reply was a long and boring one, to tell it in full detail would only send you to sleep as it almost did to me. To cut a long story short he had taken this job thirty nine years ago. Fresh out of college with a degree in Arts and Crafts, he needed to earn a quick buck. He dreamed of becoming a comic book artist, but nobody was hiring. One morning he opened the newspaper to see the words “Artist? Want to make a lot of money?” written in dark bold lettering. The rest I’m sure you can work out yourself.
For the first time in thirty nine years he was confronted with chance to draw something other than a dead president.
“Son, stay here while I draft something up.”
An hour passed, an hour in which I read the first seventy-five pages of a book called “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why”, but still I was only able find out that George Washington was on the one dollar bill.
“Well, here it is” he said, beckoning me over to his desk. There I saw the world’s first ninety-nine cent bill. Unsure of what to make of it, I asked:
“Are you please with it?”
“For the first time in nearly four decades I’ve drawn something from my heart. I know happiness and job fulfilment I’ve only dreamed of.” A smile as wide as Kansas crossed his face. “Now I can die a happy man.” He was dead.
Worrying that I could somehow get the blame for this, I grabbed the 99c note and ran back to the first floor. I returned home on Monday evening, having had enough hours on the flight to complete the book “Everything You’ve Ever Wanted To Know About Who Is On The Dollar Bills and Why” and learn everything I’d set out to discover. The first and last 99c dollar was just a happy bonus. Here it is:
Jerry, London.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)