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S. Willey: Personal Grooming Assistant

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By Ken Begley

My 80-year-old New York City personal advisor, Mr. S. Willey, is riding around the country visiting all of his clients.  He stopped by my house last week to see me and pass out some of his sage wisdom.  I know everyone can’t have a personal advisor, so I thought I’d let you in on what he had to say during his visit.

Yep, I remember it like it was yesterday, mainly because it was.  There was a knock at the front door and…

“Mr. Willey, come on in!  What a surprise!”

“Hey, Ken, how many times do I have to remind you to call me Slick?”

“How did you get here?  I don’t see a car in the driveway.”

“I’ve gone “green,” Ken.  I’m saving the environment by not owning a polluting car.  I just hitchhike everywhere and ride in everyone else’s polluting cars.”

“Green, huh.  I don’t guess you brought any of that green stuff I sent you for the past 30 years to invest in the stock market, did you?”

“Now Ken, you know all the big boys up on Wall Street got that.  Everybody has to do their job as loyal U.S. citizens and bail out our poor multi-billionaires.  You’re not unpatriotic, are you?  Besides, I’m in a new business now.  That’s why I’m here.  You’re my favorite customer.  You know how I always enjoy giving you the business.”

“I guess.  Are you using that frayed old rope to hold up your pants because you’re now part of the “Green Revolution” of recycling?”

“If you think that’s frayed, you should see my underwear.  It has more holes in it than our current national economic plan.  I’d throw them away, but the elastic is still good.  Now, are you going to let me tell you about my new business?”

“OK, Mr. Willey.  What’re you selling now?

“Selling is such a harsh word.  No, I’m going to let you in on the opportunity of a lifetime.  For a limited time only, I can allow you to have me become your personal grooming consultant.  Why, I can take an old guy like you and make him look 20 years younger.  Ken, give me 10 minutes, and you’ll look as good as the people you see in the picture frames Charlotte Parrot sells up at the Dollar Store.”

“How did you meet Charlotte?”

“I was trying to sell, uh, consult, for her husband, but she said he was alright the way he was.  Then she gave me directions to your house and said you needed a lot of work so Cindy wouldn’t trade you in for a newer model.”

“What?  Why, I’m barely middle-aged, Mr. Willey.  I’m not some old codger.”

“Barely middle aged?  Why, Ken, you’re 52.   You think you’re going to live to be 104? You done hit the peak of the hill and are sliding down fast from what I can see here.  You’re just lucky I got here in time.”

“Well, I take personal offense to that last statement.  I think I look pretty good.”

“Come on now, Ken.  Take a good look at that head of yours.  My, my, why, I bet a head as big as that catches a lot of wind.  Reminds me of a pumpkin display I saw as a young lad at the Iowa State Fair.”

“Hey!”

“And the last time I saw a streak of white in the center of something black like your hair, it was laying mashed by the side of the road with an extremely foul odor coming off of it.  You ever hear of hair coloring?”  

“Look, Mr. Willey…”

“I know it isn’t nice to make fun of other people’s deformities, but look at your nose, boy.  Wouldn’t some bankrupt banker like to have that full of nickels?”

“You’ve got two seconds to get out of …”

“Why, Ken, what about all that loose skin you have under your chin?  I bet you have to do everything you can to restrain yourself at a turkey calling contest.  You can’t go around forever talking to people with one fist on the back of your neck bunching up all the loose skin in a ball so you look presentable.”

“Why you little …”

“And those legs, Ken.  They’re so thin that when you wear shorts, you look like some kid running around on stilts.  It amazes me that Cindy even lets you out of the house with less than two paper bags.”

“Two paper bags?”

Yep, one to cover your head and another to cover it.  You’re definitely a two-bagger.”

“My gosh, Mr. Willey!  I didn’t realize I had let myself go downhill so fast.  Is there any hope for me?”

“I’m sure there is with my paid consultant work on you.  Why, look at your own Honest Abe Lincoln.  He was so ugly he probably scared the heck out of the local farm animals. But then some personal grooming consultant, like myself, got him to grow a beard and he went on to become the greatest President we ever had.”

“Wow, I hadn’t thought of that!  I could be president!”

“Well, I wouldn’t count on that.  There’s that talent thing you’re lacking.  Still, you’re half way there already!  You got the ugly part down in spades.  But wait until I’m done with you.  Why, I guarantee you’ll be as happy as a Mohawk-wearing, underwear-hanging-out, nose-pierced, tanning-bed-burned, and tattoo-across-their- backside All-American teenager.  It don’t get no better than that!”

Well, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity for personal improvement like Mr. Willey’s consulting plan. Why, before he left five minutes later, I had already improved the shape of my rear and lost a large amount of weight.  Of course that came from taking all the money out of my wallet.  Still, I’m sure permanent results will come later.

Does anybody else out there need Mr. Willey’s number?