Dear Paul:

As a fellow local celebrity and richie-rich, you’ve probably been following the controversy following Dale (known in the vernacular as “Ol’-One-Eyesâ€�) Chihuly. I think we can agree that the man says some stupid crap. “I can sign my names 100 times a minuteâ€� and “I can’t think of a good answer for thatâ€� are not the kinds of things one says when defending oneself in a public forum. And the whole lawsuit is a coup de dumbshit. But Dale isn’t to blame—the rarefied air of wealth and fame has twisted his mind, like a stretch of Hubba Bubba around a dirty index finger. Dale sounds like a man who isn’t used to explaining himself, a man surrounded by sycophants instead of the ungrateful, careless slobs most of us call friends.

Sound familiar, Paul?

Now there’s help: me. Or, rather, a version of me, called StonerBuddy—an addition to a wealthy celebrity’s retinue that, in this day of constant public exposure and the relentless pursuit of folksy cool, is as indispensable as a valet. StonerBuddy will be your everyday companion and common-man reality check, a tether to keep you from floating into the ether of celebrity hubris and delirium. He’ll hang out, make nachos, ride around your private velodrome, play laser tag in your mansion. Most importantly, he’ll keep you in touch with what everyday folks think and feel.

In lieu of sending samples of my previous work as StonerBuddy, I have custom-crafted a few rough examples of things StonerBuddy might say to you in the course of conversation:

You know that eight-person submarine you got? We should run an essay contest for middle schoolers and the winners get a date on it. A dinner date. With cool music. And the waiter in a combo tuxedo scuba suit thing. Yeah.

Fuck, dude, tater tots are good. Do you think aliens would like tater tots? Or would they be all robotronic and like: “These. Resemble. Human. Feces. Why. Do. You. Eat. Them.â€� And we’d be all like… uh… shit. I don’t know. These tots are kind of grossing me out. You got any chips?

Duuuuuude! You’ve been keeping a giant sculpture of typewriter ribbons in storage? Are you fucking nuts? Break that shit out! Put it in fucking Westlake Plaza—no, wait. Strap it onto a car, dude. Then we can drive it around town. That’d be boss, dude.

You should get Styx to play your barbecue.

The client, of course, retains all credit for any ideas generated in conversations with StonerBuddy. StonerBuddy will remain in the background, quietly assisting the client be what he’s always wanted to be—the coolest bazillionaire in the history of ever.

Here at StonerBuddy, we understand that the discreet man of distinction cannot risk opening his doors to any jibber-jabberer. Binding non-disclosure agreements are a standard part of the StonerBuddy package, as are non-asking-for-stuff contracts, assuring the client that his StonerBuddy will never, ever, ever request money, influence peddling, or assistance of any kind. The StonerBuddy stands to gain nothing except the pleasure of the client’s company, a hoi polloi sidekick and readily accessible window into the soul of the rabble.

C’mon, Paul. Don’t do a Dale. Let us help you help yourself.

Ordinarily yours,
Brendan Kiley