As a ruse to speed payment for some articles I wrote for a local magazine -- the only one worth writing for around here -- I sent the following note:My wife needs an operation. I've been putting on a brave face the last few weeks, but the inevitable must be faced -- her kneecaps have inexplicably slipped around to the backs of her legs, and she now walks like a flamingo. The worst part of this tragedy is its unintended comedic aspect. However, Flamingo Leg, especially in young women, is no laughing matter.
The good news is that we've located a surgeon who is willing to perform the operation for the incredibly low price of $238.80. I couldn't believe it! I told him I had that much coming to me from The Drive, which had graciously published my Bono story recently. Thing is, the surgeon hopes that I'm not prodding you like I once did over payment for the Home Issue a year ago. The surgeon says any word from you on the matter would work. He's a nosey bastard, as you can see, but he's willing to fix Michelle's legs -- what the hell am I supposed to say to him?
So, we only need a word from you. And you get to choose what that word is.
God bless you.
And the man paid me.
3 comments:
Creativity at it's best, how can anyone refuse such a ludicrous request?
Perhaps the payment arrived because this story, or maybe the concept, was worth twice the price of the original?
If you can believe it, the publisher (who is a hell of a good guy) took me seriously. No kidding. He called up asking how my wife was and I actually felt a little bad telling him it was all a joke. Even then, it didn't seem he understood and when I saw him in person next, he asked how my wife's operation had gone. When I explained the joke, he gave me a sheepish, "You bastard."
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