In Search of…a Fancy Title

For many years I’ve harbored a deep suspicion that the one thing that stands between me and super success in life is my lack of title. It seems like everywhere I go the high rollers are always flaunting their titles – Doctor this, General that, etc. And what have I got? Nothing. I’ve got “Mister” which totally blows.

“Mister” is the worst title because every adult male gets it for doing nothing more than hitting puberty. At least boys get “Master” which sounds a lot more impressive than “Mister.” You know what? “Mister” is a downgrade from “Master.” I’m actually worse off now then I was 30 years ago.

I’ve been wrestling with this dilemma for many years now and to be honest I’ve kind of lost hope of scoring a cool title. I guess I’ve also kind of lost hope of ever being super successful.

Education seems like the easiest way to get a title. All you need to do is pay a few hundred grand, go to school until you’re 30, crank out some boring-ass dissertation and you’re an instant “Doctor.” If I was a non-medical doctor I would never get tired of wearing scrubs around town, calling myself “Doctor” and letting people think that I was a medical doctor. But I don’t really think that I can go back to school right now. I’m too old to be a sexy coed and too young to be an inspirational octogenarian.

The Military is another great option for getting a sweet title. My problem with the military is that I could never quite pick a branch to commit to. I look terrible with a high and tight haircut so the Marines are out. Kerchiefs chafe my neck so the Navy is out. I’m a terrible driver so the Air Force is definitely out. And those Army uniforms are just too drab and dreary for words. Nope, I’m definitely not cut out for the military life, my inability to do push-ups notwithstanding.

Another option, admittedly more difficult, is to get some foreign noble to award me a title for outstanding service to the crown. I’m just not sure which noble I should befriend or what service I could perform. I could go for England. They speak almost the same language as us and Harry seems like an easy mark. Then again, if I tell those goth Spanish princesses that I can reunite Johnny Marr and Morrissey I’d bet they’d make me King of Portugal muy pronto!

Nope, I’m afraid that it’s just not going to happen. I’ve started to accept the fact that I will have to be content to live and die merely as boring Mister Blum – not dreamy Doctor Blum, stern General Blum or brave Sir Blum.

Just when I had given up hope the most surprising and wonderful thing happened! I read a letter in the local paper that was signed by a “Commodore.” And I was all like “Commodore? Commodore of what?” And it turns out that this jackass Commodore is the Commodore of the “yacht club” in the seaside shanty where I live.

That’s the ticket! Commodore is a rock star title. I put that on my business card and I’m set for life. Commodore Blum has a nice ring to it, too.

So, problem solved. My new goal in life is to infiltrate the yacht club and stage a bloodless coup. And then I will have a title – Commodore, no less – at long last.

Now all I need is a boat.

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