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Confessions of an Heirhead
October 1, 2004
by Bob Holt

Many of us in the eight to five work force community are still part-time writers who dream of seeing our work crack a major best-seller list. So we try to focus on what we feel America would like to read today, like a good fiction story, an action-packed thriller, or an informative yet educational non-fiction tale. That's when we realize that we've been focusing with our lens caps on again.

I recently heard about one of fall's newest best-sellers, Paris Hilton's Confessions of an Heiress. Now I have to admit that unlike three-quarters of the American population, I've never been in a sex video. That is mainly because I have this undying fear that my film would land in Blockbuster's Comedy section.

But the filming of a sex video has become one of the main prerequisites of today's leading authors. Now before anyone faces any nightmares about Dr. Phil McGraw or Bill Clinton wearing S and M gear, please allow me to clarify.

Like Paris Hilton, former CNN Crossfire regular Pamela Anderson has recently joined the best-seller lists. And noted C-Span Booknotes intellectual and dramatic actress Jenna Jameson is sharing her thoughts with readers on how to make love like a porn star.

Other noted authors have become successful due to their dabbling in other secondary careers, such as Hollywood and politics. Jay Leno, Billy Crystal, and Lady Esther Madonna Ciccone can now tell you all you need to know about raising your children. And the Cliff's Notes for President Clinton's autobiography are about 700 pages.

But my point is that obviously these are the stories everyone wants to read. Today's book reader has no time for the paltry offerings of some time clock punching warehouse worker who thinks he can write when everything they need to know they learned from Hollywood.

Although I have little doubt that Pamela Anderson spent endless days and nights poring over her computer fueled by numerous D cups of coffee to finish her book, I find myself much more inspired by the confessions from the pure hell which must be Paris Hilton's existence.

I have now learned that in order to write a really good book, I need to bare my soul, and then the rest of my garments, in either order. So before I attempt a take two on the sex video, I'll first begin work on my new best-seller:

Confessions of an Heirhead

I was born a simple man, and continue to prove as much on a daily basis. I have but simple needs, a roof over my head, health and happiness for my family and friends, and a trophy wife.

I always felt that my longtime reputation as a partygoer was completely unfounded. That's because I never get invited to any. I've come to grips with the fact that this is because people are so intimidated by the sheer enormity that is my presence. But eventually I lost weight.

There often seemed to be no end to the pain. On one occasion I suffered the severe trauma of breaking a tooth after biting into a hoagie at a popular local establishment. Then upon seeking treatment at my friendly neighborhood dentist, I passed another dentist's office which had a ten foot model of a large bicuspid, cup, and toothbrush advertising his services in front of his office.

After my tooth was treated, I then had to seek a different type of treatment, this involving ever increasing amounts of voltage.

As our world re-entered war times, my suffering even reverted to my family. Not that long ago my own mother's home was faced with an unknown terrorist attack. A roving band of four guinea hens turned up in her yard one day, and one even stayed there during an extremely cold winter. Unfortunately, some of these poor animals always land on the mean streets in order to escape being placed in tic-tac-toe booths with those brainy chickens.

But after a while anyone would become bored with the glamorous, jet-set life of the warehouse worker. Frankly, I've seen it all. Been there on weekends, done that.

I mean, how many times can one person lose a quarter in a soda machine in the lunch room, and then perform wrestling's flying body press on it to get $1.35 before it becomes old? And what is left after you bring your blow-up doll of Richard Nixon to work to leave in the same break area, where you can watch female co-workers make out with it?

If this deep, meaningful confessional doesn't put me on the best seller lists, I'll have to go back to shooting the sex video. Funds are limited, but at least as a long time warehouse worker, I'll save money on the film's budget because it won't require paying a co-star.

And to the rest of the eight to five workers who are still struggling writers, remember to focus on the confessional, like Paris Hilton. Or at least try to get the proper lighting on certain scenes so objects seem larger than they appear.

(Bob Holt is a guest writer for 2 Walls Webzine)


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