Looking around at all these packed boxes... I'm gonna miss this old place. We're moving the company headquarters to a new facility on Monday. There are a lot of memories floating around in here...
There's the broom closet where I spent many nights drinking Heineken tall-boys by myself, trying to drill a hole in the wall so I could look into the ladies' john. There's the mail room where I would sneak cigarettes after hours and make phone calls to my bookie. And there's the door to the loading dock. I wanted to bone that UPS delivery lady so bad, and that day when she said, “I've got something for you,” and bent over—I had to touch it. The lawsuit cost me my home in Vale. It was really just a crash-pad for my pothead son, Chad. He works in advertising now.
I'll miss it. I lost some money here, but I made a whole lot more. Those are the times I'll remember most: rubbing newly minted money on my face and chest; sticking it in my briefs and walking around the office... Yeah...
2006 was a good year for Woundup Corp. We really raked it in. I'm sure you want the quarter-by-quarter breakdown; the tech advancements; the numbers... Well, I'm not doing that this year. Why not? It's my fucking year in review, and I can do whatever I want. It's called respect, folks. I earned it. You haven't.
In January of 2006, I decided I would write a novel. I had never written anything before, besides these goddamn stupid year-in-reviews, and, of course, the original Woundup Corp. business plan. I hire pencil-necks to write things for me. That includes accountants, secretaries, office assistants and everybody's favorite—the 7-person Content Team... bunch of fairies. I got sick of those fruits making snide little jokes at the meetings—little literary jokes they thought I wouldn't understand. Like, “Sorry chief, we can't work on June 16. It's Bloomsday.” Very funny. I had to look that one up.
One day I got sick of it, so I brought out my old Smith Corona—Hemingway had owned it. I sat down and told those content fruits, “I am going to write a novel in one year.”
I built a multi-million dollar company with my bare hands (and my father-in-law's money); I dine regularly with presidents and CEOS; I'm involved in a paternity suit with Dutch royalty—I knew I could write a fucking novel.
Well, the first thing I had to decide was what to write about. A Tom Blister venture makes money, but I didn't want to lower myself to the level of those losers Grisham and Turow. I wanted this to be art, folks. I had some of my people look into it. Seems you get the most respect if you write a long 1,000-page-plus novel. Mix in a little personal experience, some family strife, a mysterious visitor or shadow organization, maybe someone leaves somebody a bunch of money in their will... also, a little skin. Shit, I knew could write that.
I outfitted my own little writing room at the estate; got myself a leather-bound writer's notebook; and stocked the liquor cabinet with Wild Turkey. I sat down and started, wrote a few sentences and...
A month later, well after the football playoffs were over, I looked in the writing room. A thin layer of dust covered my Smith-Corona and my writer's notebook. “Fucking bullshit,” I said. “No fucking book is gonna beat Tom Blister.” I sat down, wiped off the dust and jammed a sheet of paper into the machine. “THIS is my story...”
Three months after that, I was puttering around the estate, looking for a case of Titelist golf balls Bill Richley from CompuPlex gave me. They were sitting in my writing room. I looked at my typewriter and muttered, “Goddammit.” I opened a bottle of Wild Turkey and sunk into the leather couch next to the desk. “Fuck this,” I said. The sun went down, and I sat there in the dark. I was drunk. I picked up Hemingway's fucking typewriter and threw it out the window. It crashed down on the croquet court, narrowly missing my 23-year-old Taiwanese girlfriend. She was playing a game in the buff with her tennis instructor. I passed out.
In December I was skulking in my office. The Content Team—the fairies—had got whiff of my writer's block and were making little jokes. One of them said, “Cheer up, chief. It took Joyce 17 years to write 'Finnegans Wake.'” I hated them. But luck smiled on ol' Tom Blister. I found one of those little fruits making an illegal, personal copy on a company machine. He was making a copy of a 1,000-page-plus novel. It was Ethan Kraputnik himself—the leader of the content team.
“Kraputnik,” I said. “If you don't give me that novel, I'll shitcan your ass, and I know you can't live without your iPod docking station and wine-of-the-month-club.”
The twerp was really sweating. I asked what his piece-of-shit book was about.
“I... I've been working on it for five years. It's a mixture of personal experience and family strife. A mysterious visitor shows up, someone leaves a sizeable amount in a will... and there's a three-way sex scene involving a middle-aged literature prof—“
I commandeered his novel as property of the company. A few contributions to the Great Books Society and my 'script was edited in record time. Folks, you can buy my new novel, “Pounded,” Jan. 22. I'll be signing books at the Clark Street Border's in February.
What's 2007 got in store for Tom Blister? One word. Screenplay.