Some think I’m just in it for the money. Some think it’s just about the fame. I don’t know about all that, but one thing is serious: magic is no joke.
I am sick and tired of magicians being the butt of every joke. You can’t hear a joke without “a magician” being the punchline.
Us magicians have been busting our humps trying to put food on the table since the dawn of man. You think it’s so easy to do magic “tricks?” It takes skill, sweat, tears, and heart. Listen, you haven’t worked a day in your life until you’ve created bewitchment in another person’s eyes.
On top of all the lack of respect for my chosen profession, I have a horrible, horrible life threatening illness: Super Nice Guy Disease.
As far as science knows, only approximately .01% of the population has Super Nice Guy Disease. The non-fatal illness causes an otherwise regular mean guy to impulsively do kind deeds. For example, instead of simply making a meal for someone, people with Super Nice Guy compulsively prepare a meal for 300 people and then drive to a nursing home to drop off the meals.
I hope you’re all able to hold down your lunches right now. I know. It’s horrible.
It’s like, you’re trying to figure out where your rabbit went and then the next thing you know, you’re calling your sister asking if you can give her a break so you can watch her kids. Elated, your sister says yes, and instead of working on your craft, you’re on your way to her house to juggle her little brats on a Saturday night.
It gets in the way of normal, every day functioning. You’re with your agent in her office, she’s calling you an old clown. You tell her you’re actually a magician and you’re getting really heated. But then, something comes over you. Something tells you to run outside.
You drive away from the office and on your way to nowhere, you see a car on the side of the road. It’s a beautiful woman with a flat tire, waiting for help because it’s 1991 and the phone hadn’t been invented yet.
So the beautiful woman is waiting for a tow truck maybe, and because of this terrible disease, you get out of the car and change her tire for her.
Then she says to you like, “you’re handsome. What do you do?”
“I’m a magician,” you say.
“Hahah,” she laughs, “What do you really do?”
“I’m a magician. You know, an illusionist? I make people fly and shit.” And just when you’re about to tell her off, she says:
“How about we go to my place?”
Not believing the words that come out of your mouth, you say, “No thanks, I have to recycle later.”
And off you go, leaving the poor, beautiful, potentially sexually frustrated woman behind, with a brand new tire on her car.
When people think of magicians, they think only of the ultra-rich and famous ones such as David Copperfield or maybe even Lance Burton. Those are the lucky ones, but with intense patience and practice, I believe anyone can be a David Copperfield. Or at the very least, a Lance Burton.
Everyone who’s ever hidden a card up their sleeve can tell you the pure joy you feel to have surprised someone. Sometimes so much so that you start breathing heavy and everyone leaves like, “Is that ok? He’s not talking, he’s just breathing. Should we call the police?”
Imagine. You’re opening a banana, only to reveal… it’s pre-sliced!! What a surprise!
Sometimes I can stab a pencil through a bag of water without spilling a drop.
Sure, my illusions are relatively tame, but it takes a lot of money to pull off disappearing the statue of liberty or a grown man.
My agent keeps saying things to me like, “kids don’t like magicians anymore. They’re lame. They want a robot or something. Can’t you just do normal things like being a robot? How about a pilot? You know, a ‘real’ job?”
Well to that I say… I listen to your perspective openly and without comment or argument.
Ugh! Super Nice Guy Disease strikes again!
I hope by listening to my story, you will raise awareness about this horrible affliction. It is my goal to raise funds that go to my charity, “The Super Nice Guy Disease Foundation.” After pocketing a significant portion to pay for the gas it took to get to the fundraiser, I finally have enough for a bus ticket to beautiful, sparkling Las Vegas.
There I plan to do street tricks for money. I mean, balloon animals and card hocus-pocus. My plan is to start from the bottom and work my way up to top billing. Sure, right now I’m stuck being a professional toilet licker, but someday I’ll work my way up to magician’s assistant, and then after that I’ll be making beautiful women levitate and an old corpse fly above an audience while they’re screaming and clutching their children.
But if not, I guess I can just go home to my apartment where I live alone and talk on the phone to my ex-spouse while being completely present and engaged with what she has to say.
Fast forward 1 year.
I have good news for everyone. My hard work paid off! I’m cured of Super Nice Guy Disease. This is how it happened:
I’m making a balloon dog inside of Caesar’s Palace, when I see, of all people: Lance Burton. Behind me, I see a cop about to arrest me for solicitation and littering (there were popped balloon animals everywhere because it’s a real struggle to make them, ok?).
That’s when I get a brilliant idea.
I rush up to Lance Burton and immediately put a potato sack over his head and push him into a closet.
“What’s happening?” Lance said, “Are you going to kill me?”
“Haha! No! I’m just going to steal your identity. Now trade clothes with me.”
“But you smell really bad. It’s like a man who has lived on an island for a year had a baby with the dump.” Lance had a lot of courage. “Do you know who I am?” Lance said arrogantly.
“Of course I know who you are. But guess what? We are equally handsome and no one will be able to tell the difference between us because nobody remembers who you are. Your career is in shambles. How much longer can you work at Caesar’s Palace?” I said with disgust.
“What are you going to do to me?” Lance seemed annoyed while we exchanged clothes.
“Look. If you want to avoid any trouble, just live as me, a street magician who occasionally works as a toilet licker at the toilet factory on the side.”
“You know what? That kind of sounds nice. I’ve been wanting to get out of the spotlight for a while… But what about my career?”
“Oh no…” I said, “it’s happening… I’ve decided to plant a community garden. Quick! Give me your wig.”
“Not my wig!” cried Lance.
“Hurry before I become nice!” Lance handed over his pristine wig. “Now stay in this closet for the next hour and then you can come out and start your new life as a street performer. Or I’ll… I’ll… clean up the local community center… Oh no! It’s happening, BYE!”
Fast forward 2 days.
“Ahhh…” I say, completely relaxed. “I’m exhausted,” I say to the 3 gorgeous magician’s assistants and total babes I befriended, that were sitting in my new red sports car. “Two shows a week is a lot of work!” The girls giggled in the back.
“You should try being an assistant then! It’s exhausting to be disappeared and just sit there in the space time continuum, waiting to return to earth.”
We all laughed about that.
I was finally cured. Becoming rich and famous, or possibly committing kidnapping and assault cured me.
I was now free to be a total and complete asshole.
That’s when the girls and I drove off, piles and heaps of money flying out of the car as we rode into the sunset.