There is a stretch of the PCH between the hippy-dippy scene of Sanny Frisco and the “look at me” spectacle of LA-LA Land that I always look forward to. The winding road bends her leg straight, and you’re free to put your foot down and feel the purr of the engine. Today, the top is down on my 1971 Mercedes-Benz SL. September’s early afternoon sun is shining. My leather driving gloves tickle the steering wheel in time with “Aqualung” that blares out of the stereo. It is a good day to be this UglyWeiner.
“Mr. UglyWeiner! Mr. UglyWeiner!” my secretary called after me as I tried to sneak out of the office this morning. “Mr. UglyWeiner is my father’s name,” I said with a wink, not letting her calls break my easy going stride. She will be thoroughly reprimanded, of course. Sure, I’m pretty hard on my subordinates, but that’s nothing when compared to a business negosh.
“Don’t fuck with that UglyWeiner,” they all say after 18 rounds with this shark. Shark killer? Lost in my metaphors again. The true curse of the UglyWeiners: our grand imaginations.
There’s a bit of construction coming up, but nothing can bum out this vibe. The high from a few sneaky tokes is lingering. Cherry blaster, high crust values, and I’m very toasted. This UglyWeiner is melting like a piece of cheese on a Philadelphia Smash burger. I’m dripping on…
