Twenty years ago tonight, New Years Day, New Years Day also happened on a Tuesday. It happens on the same day of the week every year (much like Thanksgiving which seems to have the unfortunate luck of always ending up on a Thursday - this is bad for business and businessmen because it breaks up the work week and profits fall like shit out of a dying man's womb and that Friday is a complete wash). 

That was the day I came home after convincing nearly a dozen investors to invest in a plan to manufacture Civil War Action Figures and found my mother in the bathtub. The tub had been filled with Soviet-type acid and her entire body, save for her head had been dissolved. As I walked in, that head of hers, which was ugly as sin, rolled off the edge of the tub and down by my feet. Because one of Baltimore's infamous minor earthquakes happened just at that moment, her head rolled across the floor, smacked into the vanity, then back against the open bathroom door, and then like a pinball, ricocheted (word I don't know how to spell frankly) all around the house and eventually demanded a meal it could not eat (dissolved stomach).

It was a difficult day and the cleaning bill set me back. We had to decide not to manufacture the Civil War Action Figures and instead merely convince people to invest $70,000 each ($140,000 for families) in the idea of manufacturing these figures. It increased our profit margin quite a bit.

In life we undergo changes that are difficult, such as having your hideous mother dissolved in a tub of acid (Soviet style), we adapt and adjust. If it wasn't for my mother's awful demise that day, and how her head bouncing around the house really freaked me out (internet kiddie slang), I wouldn't be making millions from business ventures today and I never would have had the self-confidence to walk into that for-profit university and demand to be made a fully tenured professor of ethics (pat on the back - I got the job).

The FBI agents are calling me back in. There is this room where they ask me a lot of questions about my friend Dale and his dead wife, my trip to Wichita in the 2000s, my behavior in Walmart bathrooms, and my association with Brandon Hitler and the Straight White Men's Cultural Center. There is nothing to link these things together at all so I know they are on a witch hunt and throwing darts wildly at the chalkboard hoping they can get some fake charge to stick because they don't like my kind.

My friends.