"I heard rumour that your parent's were on "The price is right" and for a prize they had three choices. The first choice was behind door A and it was a Mustang, but they turned it down hoping for a better prize. So they opened door B and it was a unicorn that pooped gumdrops, but they saw the prizes were getting better so they turned it down and continued to the third door. So they get to the last door and they opened it and it was a dragon and it could turn anything into gold if it wanted to, which would yield a lot of money for the future. So your parents said "We don't care about the other prizes, we just want door C" Then the Dragon disappeared and an awkward child showed up, and that was you. (because your name sounds like door c) So it's your fault that your parents don't have a magic dragon."
Obvious grammar mistake aside (and you know you just checked to see where it was), this is a pretty accurate representation of not one, but all of my friends.
Either way, this troubled me for multiple reasons. First of all, I have no recollection of my earliest years on this planet.
Secondly, I have this tendency to vomit gold bars. Unfortunately, it's a long and exceedingly painful process, so I only do it in times of dire financial need.
Seriously, it's nice and shiny, but those bars are freaking HUGE, and my throat is relatively tiny.
Thirdly, I breathe fire. This is really convenient when I'm at restaurants and my food is undercooked.
True story.
Mostly.
Actually, that was completely fabricated, if you hadn't noticed already. I tend to come up with very believable lies.
Peter Billingsley has nothing on me.
Nothing.
Either way, when my friend, Ben (who, by the way, has demanded a blog post dedicated to how awesome he is, and that one is NOT a completely fabricated story), posted this on my wall, I found myself racked with guilt, because of the horrible prank I played on my parents on The Price is Right just so I could get into the family.
See, most kids just hope they get adopted. I take things one step further.
Or in this case, about eighty steps.
Anything for a little feigned paternal love.
Still, I found myself very sad that I couldn't have provided my parents with my gold bar-vomiting dragon counterpart.
So, Mom and Dad, here he is in all of his glory.
His name is Midas, because I want people to think I'm worldly and intelligent.
Also, I'm running low on cash, Mom and Dad.
Love,
Your (Non-Dragon) Son.
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