I decided I wanted to interview Charles Passy, who writes for the Wall Street Journal. Because I wanted someone interesting to talk to for my blog. I have high hopes for my blog. I'm hoping it will start getting a lot of views and then I will sell it to the highest bidder and retire to Thailand on the money from the sale. You can buy an orchid plant in Thailand for ten baht. So I googled Mr. Passy and got a phone number in, of all places, Texas. I figured he had a vacation home there. So I dialed the number. "Jefferson Jimplecute" said a lady's voice. "Come again?" I asked. "This is the Jefferson Jimplecute newspaper, sir" she replied patiently. "How can I help you." "Um, I'd like to talk to Charles Passy, please?" I told her uncertainly. "Just a minute" she said. She came back a minute later: "He's out delivering the paper right now, can I get your number so's he can call you right back?" I was puzzled. "I'm looking for the Charles Passy who writes for the Wall Street Journal?" I told her desperately. "Oh him" she replied. "He don't work here, honey. Our Charles Passy is just a local boy who works part-time in the office here. Sorry." "That's okay" I told her. "Thanks." Damn Google, sending me on a wild goose chase. So next I tried calling the Wall Street Journal direct for his phone number. They said he was at his vacation home in Marion County, and they wouldn't give me his number there. They didn't even offer to take a message, the momsers. But I had to find something out, just for my own self-esteem. So I asked "Where's Marion County, anyway?" They told me it was in Texas. So I never got to interview Charles Passy, the one who writes for the Wall Street Journal. I decided instead to call back and interview the Charles Passy, Charlie to his friends, who works in the Jefferson Jimplecute newspaper office. He's a nice kid, but really had nothing important to say. Except that his dad owns a bottle of mescal with a scorpion in it.
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