By Sam Levin
By Sam Levin
By Sam Levin
By Jessica Lussenhop
By Sam Levin
By Timothy Lane
By Sam Levin
By Dennis Brown
Unreal has long extolled our commitment to a diversified portfolio. Ergo our $100 investment to purchase the naming rights to "River Front Times," a two-year-old Thoroughbred poised to set Fairmount Park ablaze next season. Ditto our (unsuccessful) $100 bid to purchase St. Louis Centre's doomed skyway and our (pending) $100 offer for the St. Louis Blues hockey franchise.
Now comes Maryland Heights resident Bill Warren author, businessman and (he says) owner of the largest guano island in the West Indies with another can't-miss investment opportunity.
Warren runs a diving company that specializes in sunken treasure. But right now he's after Natalee Holloway, the eighteen-year-old Alabaman who disappeared in May during her high school's senior trip to the island of Aruba, off the coast of Venezuela.
Warren isn't optimistic about bringing her back alive. Still, he's raring to go, and he's convinced the Holloway family will cough up the reward $1 million for Natalee's safe return if he can provide closure. "We have found over 28 bodies that nobody else, no other agency, has been able to find," the 51-year-old treasure hunter notes.
What he's looking for is money: specifically, $3,000 to fund the Aruba expedition. "If we find her body, I would share the million in an equal split with whoever's involved," Warren promises. "The icing on the cake is that Aruba is filled with treasure galleons. Who knows what we'd come up with? We would give investors a percentage."
"We" is Warren and his partner, retired San Diego lifeguard Joe Barnett. "He's 61 and built like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but shorter," imparts Warren. "He is the most highly decorated lifeguard in San Diego's lifeguard history. Joe has found more than 100,000 pieces of jewelry. He goes into the sea; he walks out with a diamond in his hand. He won't eat dinner until he finds a piece of jewelry or a ring."
Warren estimates the foray to Aruba will take about a week. "I will rent a boat, and I will pull Joe slowly on a long rope, like shark bait," he says. "When he releases and disappears, you know he's found something. We're looking for a few thousands bucks to get us down there while there's still something left."
After due diligence, Unreal has determined that Warren's venture merits our $100 flat rate if and only if our readers come up with the remaining $2,900.
Interested parties must act quickly, however. Like Warren says: "Soon the crabs and the fish will eat everything."
Inquiries about this investment opportunity should be directed to firstname.lastname@example.org.
If Billboards Could Sing
Allo, mates! Not long ago a certain internationally recognized pair of sexually ambiguous middle-aged Aussies (a.k.a. "us") took a stroll on the beach with two flutes of Dom, wearing white suits, braided belts and sockless loafers. Then we hit the clubs and rallied some trim back to our suite, where we polished off the DP and had a four-way. Now, just in time for Thanksgiving, we're in St. Louis supporting a new hit single, "Thanksgiving Time." It's a heartfelt cover of an "All Out of Love" spoof that aired on SNL a few seasons back. We were angry about it at the time but grew to love the song as if it were our own. We hope you like it!
Air: It's Thanksgiving time, I love your new blazer. Your sleeves are pushed up. It looks pretty awesome.
Supply: Well, thank you, my friend. You're so kind to say so. Your eyes are so blue. I think that I like them.
Air: It's Thanksgiving time, let's go get a burger. Maybe some fries, and go take a car ride.
Supply: Go to a motel, drink a gallon of brandy. Hang out in robes, and see what develops.
"Phones on silent, please" read numerous signs posted around the Collinsville Gateway Center on Halloween weekend, as the Pegasus Metaphysical Symposium brought with it a supernatural selection of wind chimes, incense, healing jewelry, Buddhist statuary, wall tapestries and instructional DVDs divulging the deep spiritual mysteries behind belly dancing and teaching oneself to play the folk harp.
For the $7 cost of admission, proud divinators and the di-curious also received tickets for the hourly raffle (Unreal had our eye on a certain blue bejeweled skull pendant) and access to lectures with titles like "Tapping: Healing for Yourself and Others"; "Copper, Magnets & Pyramid Power"; and "Hypnosis: Group Progression to a Future Time." During "Speaking with Spirit," Unreal crossed over with a green, purple and blue peignoir-clad woman who described how her deceased grandmother assured her she truly was the intended recipient of a controversial tea kettle.
We briefly considered a Tarot reading, but discretion took the better part of valor after we heard a woman confess to a companion that her session last year had reduced her to tears. Instead we browsed the CDs for sale, which included works by Yanni, Neil Young, Jon Secada and U2. "Certain music increases your spiritual currency," a woman explained. "And spiritual currency is free to everyone."
Unreal was considering exchanging some of our scant paper currency for a dragon-shaped dagger when our cell phone rudely tinkled, banishing us to the curb and kicking the convention's karma right in the badonka-donk.
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