Welcome to my soapbox. Here you can typically expect to find my various and sundry diatribes, vituperations and general jawing on whatever it is that's on my mind at the time that I decide to post - you know, typical, self-indulgent blogging for the sake of externalizing what was previously a perfectly content internal monologue and putting it on the page for all the world to see. Again, welcome. Thanks, The Management

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Buckle Up

I’m not sure how long I’d been down before someone helped me back onto my barstool. I quietly thanked the fellow and politely explained that I was examining the underside of the seat for manufacturing defects. It had been rocking for quite some time before it finally threw me. More importantly, however, it gave me something other than a bruised elbow and a bottle cap in my ear canal. It had given me a million dollar idea: seatbelts for barstools.

This would be my ticket to the multimillions I already had, according to the story I told attractive female patrons. Health insurance subsidies were just around the corner. Volvo would be knocking down my door to buy the producer of the "world's safest barstool." Drunks around the world would owe me their physical well-being and perhaps their lives. Cocktail guests would swim in admiration as they enjoyed top-shelf drinks and caviar at my mansion, complements of the inventor of the barstool seatbelt, a man who had taken modest means and overwhelming philanthropic vision to new heights.

I was well on my way. I asked the bar-tender for a napkin and pen to begin charting out the course. “Give me a Jameson on the rocks too,” I said, “and a long-neck.” China would be the best place to do the manufacturing on the cheap. Distribution would be easy, as what bar-owner would dare look their clientele in the eye to say, “I just don’t see your safety as a priority?” My mind was moving more quickly now, until my stool threw me a second time. I grappled for a leg and scaled back up to my perch.

The plan I thought I was transcribing on the napkin was gone. In its place were three of my own signatures, in slightly different styles, and a drawing of something resembling a whiskey-drenched unicorn. I asked the bartender who had stolen my work and if he would replace the whiskey I had inadvertently dumped during my stool malfunction. His “no” and subsequent 86-ing of me didn’t go over well. I angrily explained that I was an inventor and appealed to the other patrons, the very people I was trying to save. Just before the bartender defenestrated me, I did hear one enthusiastic fan at the opposite end of the bar. Excitedly, I looked back to see my supporter and realized what I had heard was merely the unintelligible sound that precedes projectile vomiting.