I’ve been using that “hook a brother up” line for the past couple of years, ever since I heard a witless dolt say to an apparent acquaintance, “Hook a brother up with a beer.”
We were happy-houring in the fenced in confines of an insanely crowded outside bar at a hotel on the beach in Avalon, New Jersey. The guy to whom I refer was dressed in the official ensemble of Seven Mile Island: green Bermuda shorts with a pattern of blue seashores and a pink Izod polo shirt (colors optional). He was about as white as white gets and sported a palpable Main Line attitude.
Urban slang this guy was not.
It was such a disingenuous affectation, and so repulsive a gesture that it inspired me to write a piece for the book I was working on at the time, Dancing in the Cave of the Dragon. The chapter is titled “Sales Ethics―Not an Oxymoron (Really!),” and begins like this:
I have occasion to visit a certain beach town in South Jersey that has a reputation for being a bit elitist. What it really is, however, is an island full of silly men.
And frivolous women.
A true testament to the fortunes of accidental birth. Tanned, prep-school postured, Grey Goose VX swilling, Beemer-encrusted, puerile-smiling, empty IZOD-garbed twits romping through the glory of daddy’s and mumsy’s largesse, or the recipients of much-manufactured luck in the oft-rigged gambling industry known as Wall Street.
A whole island of them.
I thought it was a pretty good piece and I made it the first chapter in the book. Since it was published, I’ve received numerous messages about how it struck a chord with folks.
And I can’t get that damn line out of my head!
So, hook a brother up with some teeth.
Here’s the why and the how on that:
In the Introduction of Dancing in the Cave of the Dragon, I write about a couple of bouts of cancer I had a few year ago, one in my mouth and the other in the lymph nodes of my neck. After a six-week course of radiation treatments and another six-week course of hyperbaric oxygen therapy, my good doctor, who by the way, happens to have a house in Avalon, told me it was highly unlikely that I’d ever get cancer in my mouth again. Of course, he also told me that it would be highly unlikely that the cancer would spread to a lymph node, and even more highly unlikely that I would need radiation.
So let’s just call me Highly Unlikely because I have another small spot of cancer in my mouth. It’s not life-threatening or debilitating or anything like that — just gruesome, both the 12 hours of surgery and the recovery, complete with tracheostomy and feeding tubes, plus drainage tubes, making me look like something from the Borg Collective. (I made a couple of videos on Facebook if you’re interested in more detail, you sick pup).
Part of the procedure entails rebuilding a part of my jaw and inserting dental implants. There will be three specialists working on me and between them, they estimate I will need five implants. Or four. Or three. Or two.
Gives you a warm fuzzy, doesn’t it?
The best part is that it’s doubtful my health insurance will cover the implants because, you know, those insurance companies are always looking out for our best interests. The implants cost about three thousand dollars each, and if you’re slow at math, that could mean fifteen large … out of my pocket.
So in order to help alleviate some of the anxiety I’m sure you’re feeling over my predicament, you should immediately have five of your friends buy my new book, COVID 19 House Arrest. Or better yet, buy five books yourself and give them to people you want to impress. We’re even lowering the price to only $14.95 for this once in a lifetime chance to HOOK A BROTHER UP!
Simply go to www.howtoselltheplague.com for some peace and tranquility, and that’s not highly unlikely.