The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 109
Thing is, Foreman LOST that fight. Ali outsmarted, outclassed, outboxed him for seven rounds then knocked him out cold in the eighth.
But hey, man, this is America. Some PR firm found poor old depressed George and proceeded to groom him, re-image him, transform him from destroyed moron to that jolly barbecue negro next door we all love. They stuck his face on products, put him on TV wearing a checkerboard apron and chef’s hat and, before you could say con-job, everybody had forgotten about what—or rather who—went down in the ring.
Nothing new. After all, the source of the sorcerer’s successful trick is believing, then implementing the idea that if you don’t mind playing the fool, you can fool anyone.
George didn’t mind.
Guys like me, on the other hand, find it tough getting past the con.
But when I looked around FB that first day I couldn’t help but realize that in essence there was zero difference between me and any of the other billions suckered into buying a Foreman endorsed piece of shit product.
Except for one thing. I hadn’t forgotten who George Foreman really was: a clown, a washed up boxer, humiliated former champ, and the most obviously blatant illustration of a modern day Uncle Tom imaginable.
Was Zuckerberg’s con any different?
Only in the way the pieces moved across the board, I decided. Still, hanging in with FB—a lead to a lit agent and a publishing deal being the only reasons—became a drastically different affair after only a couple months when I not only landed an agent, but a date with a lovely 40-ish blonde from northern CA.
Only trouble there was the agent wanted to rep my visual art, not the novel.
And the woman, Bridget—as enchanted as I was with her naked shoulders, sensual mouth, neck, blonde do—just seemed lonely.
Lonely and well-to-do.
She’d bring the wine, she said.
Me: Can we postpone till October? Nothing like fall in the high desert.
Bridget: Of course! Can’t wait! (Heart emoji)
So what if shit had gotten a little off track? If the agent, Steven, could get me into the LA galleries as promised, no way I’d refuse.
And if Bridget, well… guess I just hoped she’d stay lonely a couple more months while I got my ancient ass into screw-all-night shape.