I wrote about Heinz Gaugel, German artist by way of Holmes County, and his daughter and great-granddaughter showed up to leave a comment. I wrote about Anthony Kleem, painter of our favorite puzzles, and he stopped by the blog to say hello. At that point, I decided I would write only about people I admire. You have not seen me writing about politics, for example, since then [cough]. So here is my letter to Mr. Gates. I have every hope he will see it by end of day tomorrow.
Yes, that was a joke.
Dear Mr. Gates, Sir:
My son is in love with your business policies, especially the ones that produce billions of dollars. He is sort of waffling between two ambitions for his future career: qualifying for disability so he can sit around watching TV and eating Pop-Tarts, or buying a lime-green Ferrari and a large motorhome so he can spend his life driving around the country with his wife and fifteen homeschooled kids.
He is nine years old, but I feel he has great promise for a future in business strategies, and I was wondering if you would take him under your wing and steer him. Forgive the mixed metaphors. I am not sure if he is an egg or a ship or a cow in that analogy. (We come from the country, and there’s just so much literary fodder right out the window.)
He wrote you a letter today, which I have enclosed below. In it you will see his obvious talent coming out. He is a great writer. He invents creative solutions to financial predicaments. He is focused and to the point. He bonds quickly with people and could make a great salesman for sure.
Dear Mr. Bill Gates,
Could we be friends? I would be very flattered to be a friend of such a kind, brilliant, rich, handsome, gentleman like you.
He is also patient beyond his years. I believe he only intends to hit you up for more, um, material benefits in his third letter or following, so he’s taking a while to plow the field. Under the circumstances, I think that shows a certain greatness of spirit.
Alright. I will close with that, and if you could see your way clear to lend him a hand we’d be happy to join the throngs currying favor with the richest man in the world. Excuse me, I meant the next richest man in the world. Bye for now, he needs me to prepare him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.