Resorting to self-aggrandizing contemporary slang in a desperate effort to boost my personal brand, I claim to be "money." Perhaps only a crumpled dollar bill, sure, one that's been forgotten in a back pocket and sent through the wash several times, but still acceptable currency. A good old dependable greenback. Take me to a cocktail bar, wave me in the air, and I'll be sure to catch the bartender's attention.
Yet there exist a few unkind and judgmental cynics surprised I even valued myself as high as a dollar. They were inclined to think of me as about as useful as a Canadian quarter. I was out of circulation as far as they were concerned. At best, their highest estimation of me might have been as a disposable penny inserted into one of those souvenir machines at tourist attractions, then stamped with an illegible design or unreadable motto. At least it's something, I suppose, to be a keepsake, albeit a keepsake that nobody really wanted to keep in the first place.
So this personification of myself as cold hard cash is how I hope to bribe my way to relevancy again. Either under the table or neatly folded and slipped from palm to palm, you know it's taken care of when I'm being counted. Of course, I don't want to push it too hard and end up turning into "filthy lucre," or God forbid "spondulicks," but I do have to put on the big bucks show. Hence, I am announcing that I'm now available as legal tender for all your debts, public and private. Novus ordo seclorum.
