I must get me a lobbyist. I haven’t yet figured out what exactly he’ll be lobbying about. How about something like, “He is the smartest soul in the country and they are denying him the chance to prove it. I tell you every other guy is jealous about him!” Or, “He is so smart he could single handedly make the country a top-earning nation by the time the Maywether guy gambles away a quarter of his hundreds of millions.” The lobbyist will figure out something.
Times have changed. These days you need people to tell stories about you, true or otherwise, to haul you up to the popularity summit whether you deserved it or not. Not that you’ve provided them with any “Eureka!” moment. Who said you needed that! They might not even have the faintest idea why they are cheering their palms raw for your sake. But you need them to do just that-applaud you. The melodramatic stories about you would make the rounds of cafés, watering halls and the like. You’ll be lifted you so high on the celebrity ladder you, yourself, would be asking, “…And who the hell is that guy up there!”
The stories you hear about people this days are so captivating you would be exclaiming “I never knew we were a nation of so many Einstein-minded people!” In a country where awarding honorary doctorate degree is titling towards ethnic-based thinking, it is comforting to know we’re not short of guys with ‘real’ brains.
A fellow was once telling me about a ‘politician’ who, you believe, has overstayed his welcome by years if not decades.
“He’s a very intelligent person. You know why he hasn’t been given any position?”
“Why?”
“He will outshine each one of them! That’s why. He’ll expose them for dumb losers they are.”
“Are you saying there is a deliberate conspiracy against him?”
“That’s what I’m saying! I tell you this country is going down the tubes.”
The news should have left me with gaping mouth;
“You mean he is that brilliant!”
“And I haven’t even told you the whole story.”
Well, as far as I am concerned if anything was to go down the tubes it should have been the politician in question.
There once was also this guy who was telling me about a certain medical doctor.
“He’s so gifted all he needs to do is touch you a few places and you’d be cured of any ailment.”
What a story! Forget if he was a neurologist, entomologist or one of those hard to pronounce ‘…ists.’ Forget about the pills or injections or all those uncomfortable treatments. All the guy needs to do is touch you! How I wish that was true! We could have saved so much foreign currency we spend on the import of all those expensive medical gadgets.
OK, then there is my lobbyist would announce to the world what a swell guy I was. He’ll tell them I was an unsung hero who deserves to be in Oslo or wherever for some Nobel prize. He’ll tell everyone that I am the type of man every woman dreams of. Not even Samson of the Biblical fame would carry you that high!
Of course, my lobbyist wouldn’t tell them six of my last seven girl friends literally flung me out the window, and the seventh didn’t answer a single one of my last thirteen calls. I am that ‘untouchable’. But thanks to my lobbyist, the story of my romantic escapades would make Rasputin roll over in his grave with envy. “I tell you he is a talking, walking angel minus the wings.”
Is my lobbyist making all this up? Of course he is! That is what I want him to do. I’m paying him a fortune to do just that. Look, every time Pinocchio told a lie his nose stretched; wasn’t that the kindergarten story? We’re lucky that doesn’t happen in real life; if it did we’d have been dubbed something like ‘The Nation of Long Noses.’ God save us from such humiliation.
My lobbyist wouldn’t tell others that, to many people who knew me for what I am, I was Hitler, Stalin, Amin and the Yorkshire Ripper rolled into one. I’ve swindled more people than the stone-faced Arsenal fans last Sunday. Thanks to my lobbyist I’ll be the holiest man walking.
My lobbyist will tell the world that had I been allowed to play my political cards I’d have made us the envy of humanity. Wouldn’t that have been nice! He’ll claim dark forces were determined to deny me the ultimate public admiration I deserved.
Of course, he wouldn’t be telling them my only knowledge of politics was that I knew there was a fellow called Lenin and that I have no idea if he was dead or exiled in some faraway land. My lobbyist would arrange for me to give a couple of interviews I’ll talk a lot, and still say nothing. Anyone who dares ask, “What in the world is he talking about?” is a subversive, an opportunist, an anarchist and all those something-ists jealous of my popularity. I’ll be the next guy to roll out the next revolution in the spirit of Che Guevara. Of course my lobbyist has first to tell me who the Guevara guy is.
Yes, I should have a lobbyist who would tell the world what a friendly guy I was. So friendly, I easily mix with people. I’m always the life of any party I attend. My good manners are so contagious anyone within a ten kilometer radius would catch it. I wouldn’t interfere with my lobbyist’s choice of words as long as he makes sure I get the front seat! Of course, he wouldn’t tell them the last time I mixed with anything that comes close to a crowd was when they locked me up for a barroom brawl. I couldn’t be the life of any party because no one invites me to one. But this is classified information and my lobbyist wouldn’t be dumb enough to offend me.
Our obsession with popularity is so entrenched that in the old days we didn’t even need lobbyists! We did it ourselves. There is this story that happened a few decades back. A famous singer who is now deceased, May God Bless his Soul, was having drinks in a Kazanchis hotspot. On the neighboring stool was a diminutive university professor who looked like he was a few shots of brandy away from a groundbreaking scientific breakthrough, a sort of Albert Einstein. The singer turns around and says,
“Don’t know who I am?”
Einstein was taken aback. What the hell is this! He was mulling if the ‘Theory of Relativity’ wasn’t a hoax and look what he gets. Ha!
“No, I don’t.” He actually knew the singer!
“I am…” the singer boasts.
“Are you a football player?”
That did it! The singer goes ballistic raining all sorts of profanities on the tiny fellow who was all smiles as he beat a fast retreat out the door.
But now, the logline has been rewritten. If the obsession to turn heads in the streets is interfering with your sleep go get your lobbyist! He’ll know what to do.
