Why, I’m Time Magazine’s Person of the Year December 19th, 2006 by Benjamin “Do you know who I am?” I asked the waitress as she waddled past me for the seventh time. She turned and looked at me with a mixture of porridgey uncomprehension and raging incredulity. “Hon,” she said, as if her words were some kind of mucus trying to ooze its way out of the corner of her mouth, “I don’t have a clue who you are.” I smiled broadly, sat up straight, and looked her cold in the eye. “Why, I’m Time Magazine’s Person of the Year,” I said, “and I’d appreciate some service.” Her expression changed from incredulity to disgust, as if the bile of her own speech had left skidmarks in her mouth. She didn’t believe me. “Oh yeah?” she retorted. “Prove it.” I unbuckled my leather attaché case and removed one of the five pristine copies of Time Magazine I’d been keeping there since the issue had come out. “There,” I pointed at the cover, “see?” Instantly, she was wide-eyed. “But … but …” Her mouth hung open l...
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