April
24, 2002
Today is the day to know that everything isn't what it seems.
Note: the webmaster of Zulkey.com lost the original version of this piece. However, we hope that you will find this one an adequate replacement, with a hint of lymon.
1
George Foreman is not who you think he is. He is not a boxer, he does not promote Doritos or grills, and he is not black.
No, George Foreman is the greatest writer in the universe, and it’s amazing that you haven’t heard of him yet.
Exquisite writing flows effortlessly from George, who at the age of 24, has already won two Pulitzer Prizes. He had his first piece published in the New Yorker at the tender age of 12, and won his first Pushcart Prize at 13. All without any evidence of deep thought or struggle, the literary genius pours from him. Writers everywhere who dedicate their lives to creating something good, who take classes and who struggle through exercises and practice and edit and toil will never likely produce anything even as good as what ends up in George Foreman’s garbage can.
Not that it has anything to do with his talent (because there are plenty of talented people out there who are perfectly nice), George is also one of the most unpleasant people on the face of the earth as well. No one is more aware of his talent than he is, and thus his talent is equaled by his ego. No false modesty, or modesty at all has ever escaped his lips. He has never offered any advice or hope for struggling writers attempting to emulate him, other than "find a new line of work."
Not that it has anything to do with his personality, but George also isn’t the best-looking guy. A lifetime of sitting and writing has not contributed towards an active lifestyle, and that, paired with a fondness for junk food, has made him overweight. George hovers about 20 pounds over the mark that differentiates acceptably overweight from just plain fat. He could easily lose those by drinking less and walking around a bit more, but he considers that far beneath him.
George also isn’t the best at taking care of himself. He could afford fine clothes that would make him look much better, but he sees no reason to please other people, so he dresses sloppily in sloppy clothes. He can also afford the most elegant shower and the most luxuriant toilet products, but he forgoes it and general hygiene as well, so his greasy hair falls flat on his greasy forehead, and he faintly smells of grease as well.
Not that he needs additional money or fame, but George’s general unpleasantness has affected his career somewhat. Demands for interviews and speeches and appearances dwindled down to nil when it was realized how difficult he is. While he could be a media darling, he is merely grudgingly acknowledged as a fantastic writer, by people who wish his talent could have gone to somebody kinder, more gracious, or sweeter-smelling.
This is not a story, by the way, of George finding redemption by finding true love or his soul and whatnot and befriending little children and old people everywhere and giving his money away and losing weight and learning how to love. So don’t even think about it.
Even George’s family cannot muster up much affection for him. His retired parents, Esther and Barry, have always been proud of their son but wished that he could be a better human being. Esther has since given up suggesting that George would make more friends if he would "ask people more questions about their lives" instead of rolling his eyes and interrupting them whenever they speak, and Barry has longer since given up suggesting that George could afford to give some of his millions of dollars away to charity. George’s younger brother Tom, a construction worker, always bashfully and quickly says that he is happy for his brother’s success, although he himself is "not much of a writer." George’s older sister Meredith, however, a school teacher, openly curses him in public. She and her grad-student husband Rick struggle to raise their two children, and the only gift George gives them are illegibly-signed copies of his books.
So, George lives alone in his charming-but-would-be-better-if-he-did-something-with-it townhouse in Georgetown. Washington DC is a great town in which to be left alone, since you must seek out acquaintances; they won’t come to you. He spends most of his days inside, writing, emerging occasionally to complain to the university about students who urinate on his lawn or inexplicably leave patio chairs and bagels on his doorstep. A few pundits made a few tries to befriend him, but quickly realized that the effort and headache simply wasn’t worth it, so he is largely left alone.
What else would George need in the world? While, admittedly, he is the typical example of a hidden bad esteem resulting in an even worse exterior, he is largely happy with himself and his life. He has all the money and fame he could ever want, and at such a young age! Yes, he’s got all a 24-year-old could ever require, and more.
Also, for the first time in life, he has writer’s block.