The title is slightly misleading—it is there for three reasons:
1. The ads on this web page are selected by Google. Their selection formula is proprietary and about as secretly vague as a presidential candidate's jobs policy. Over the years, I have discerned a small pattern. When I wrote about the Trojan War, we had a few weeks of condom ads, but when I deliberately included the phrase “push-up bra” in my blog for several weeks, all I got were ads about mail-order divinity degrees. I’m trying very hard not to visualize any connection.
I can't wait to see the ads this week. And each and every one of you should click on one of those ads--those ads not only pay Google to run this blog, they pay for the beer that fuels my writing. More clicks would buy better beer that might (who knows?) mean better-written blogs. See? It is in your interest to click those ads—between the two of us, you are the only one who actually reads what I write. (Well, except for my long-suffering wife who edits out both the overly profane and the obtusely inane.)
2. No matter what I write about, people write me hate mail—lots of it. I could write about kittens and apple pie, and some jackass in Arkansas would still respond with the inevitable, "You will never see the sweat (sic) face of Jesus."
From several Arabic-speaking countries, I have received at least a half-dozen emails that contain the word "fatwa." I've gotten creepy letters from men in prison and incredibly strange emails from India (quite a lot of these make inexplicable references to the nude scene in the movie "Titanic"). Actually, the only country that consistently sends me polite and intelligent responses is Sweden. I have no idea why—maybe it is just too damn cold to be stupid.
Now, if I'm going to get a lot of weird email this week, I want it to at least start off with a possible offer of fifty thousand dollars and a blow job.
3. And last, the title actually refers, at least peripherally, to a real suggestion. My idea—and I admit that it comes after a very late faculty meeting where copious amounts of educational brain juice (Laphroaig) were consumed—is obviously brilliant!
It seems impossible to pick up a newspaper and not read about some Hollywood actress arrested for drunk driving, a celebribitch appearing in public wearing only a Fruehauf mud flap as a loin cloth, or some infamous nitwit accused of felonious theft. And that’s just the stories about Lindsay Lohan. There are always a few additional stories about a few other talented—but stupid—people in the public eye being arrested because they need keepers.
How many NFL stars have been arrested for crimes with guns whose calibers were higher numbers than their IQ’s? How many slow-witted basketball stars have had fatal accidents with fast cars? How many heiresses have had hit-and-run accidents while racing to make their next “accidental” sex tapes?
We are not talking about college students—these people all have two things in common: They are rich and stupid. I expect students to do stupid things, but alleged role models with seven figure incomes have the resources to prevent stupid childish behavior even if they don’t have the intelligence.
Frankly, I don’t really care about these people. For the most part, I don’t even care about their victims. If you are dumb enough to party with Plaxico, when the gun falls out of his underwear, you deserve to get shot. If you invite Lindsay to your house, you shouldn’t be surprised when your best jewelry vanishes. I just wish I didn’t have to hear about it when I’m trying to watch the news. As I kept telling my sons, What’s-His-Name and The-Other-One, “Daddies don’t want justice. Daddies want quiet.”
So, Lindsay-Paris-Kim-Reese, here is my suggestion: Hire a chauffeur. If you make over a million dollars a year, you can afford a chauffeur. I suggest you recruit a great big bruiser of a guy, preferably a retired cop who can bench press a Chevy. Then make a simple deal with him. He stays with you from 4:00 in the afternoon until he locks you in your bedroom at 1:00 am. He drives you, stays with you in the bar, and keeps you out of trouble.
He won’t let you leave the house unless you are wearing at least some of your clothing. He won’t let you leave the jewelry store until you pay for the necklace. And, if necessary, he drags you out of the bar, locks you in the trunk of your limo, and drives your drunken ass home.
For these services, you pay him an annual salary of $100,000. Then, at the end of the year, if you have not been arrested one time, if the tabloids haven’t published a mug shot that shows you trying to lick your own ear, and if not a single department store is claiming you are an inept kleptomaniac, then your chauffeur earns the bonus mentioned in the title. In the long run, it will be a hell of a lot cheaper than paying a gaggle of lawyers and seeing a premature end to your career—to say nothing of all the sexual favors you will have to perform in prison.
Plaxico, this advice will work for you, too. You’ll just have to be an equal opportunity employer.