I played stickball in a parking lot in Brooklyn as a boy. I didn’t grow up on an oil derrick, like I’ve led some to believe. I’ve never been an oil man. I was more of a street man — cavorting around the 5 boroughs in search of a good time. As a young adult, I listened to rap music and played chess in my spare time. Again, I never was an oil man.
The older I got, the more delirious I became, often yelling at shadows in my bathroom, declaring myself to be a “DOCTOR OF MEDICINE” on the internets. When people would ask, ‘what sort of medicine do you practice, good sir?’ — I always answered ‘the good type.’ I went thru periods of manic, trading the stock market, becoming accustomed to the many eccentricities of its character. I took on these traits and made them my own — ‘CEO of Exxon this, the Guru ar Disney that.’ I became a living embodiment of all of my trades — ‘VIX TITS ALL OVER YOUR CHEST.’
It has been a long journey, but I can confidently say, without equivocation or pause, I am most certainly not an oil man now, never have been or will be. Now I say this now during a curious moment of self-introspection. I warn you, there will be a day, typically after a period of zeal, that I will hop on here and declare, once again, to have grown up inside of the Texas Tea, breathing the embers into my lungs from the fires that grew bright in the night, as my Father lit a cigar to celebrate yet another massive oil find.
This is a lie.
I might tell you that I grew up inside of a special part of Brooklyn, one rarely talked about by others because it possessed so much oil — we kept it secret. These riches enabled us to buy off the press and make everyone keep quiet about it. We had so much money, we had our own police force and even went as far as to erect a wall around our property, in order to keep the riff riff out. Behind this wall, which was festooned with barbed wire and pictures of people killed for trespassing, was an immense amount of oil — just sitting their in pools as black as tar, visited by families who wore clothes from the late 19th century, umbrellas on sunny days — men in their T model Fords smoking their pipes and listening to their children frolic in the car as the yankee game was being broadcasted through an antiquated, yet wondrous, tinny car radio.
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