My Relentless Hunt For Nicolas Cage
I’m a Caged man. He’s everywhere and nowhere. He’s wonderful and awful. He’s somewhere, but seemingly invisible. I am a Caged man.
Let me build some background so you’ll understand what I mean when I write “I’m a caged man.”
My family members will attest that I’m a little bit of a prankster. I can’t help it. I get such enjoyment by pulling pranks on the people I love. I know, it’s a funny way to express it, but that’s just me. My youngest has been getting the brunt of my jokes lately. I suspect he’s had enough for a while.
Here’s the other bit of background info you need to know; I hate Nick Cage. It’s not personal. It’s not like he’s ever cut me off in traffic on his flaming motorcycle, run me down with a runaway street car or given away any of my secrets. It’s professional. I don’t care for almost all of his work. He’s on top of my list of bad actors who’ve won Oscars.
Nick has made some dreadful movies. He’s taken two of my favorite films and remade them into, well, let’s be honest, absolute pieces of stinkin’ crap.
Now let’s pull these very divergent threads together.
While I was on vacation, my sons printed out 129 pictures of Mr. Cage and hid them in my house. My task is to find them all, and once I do, my boys will take me out for a nice dinner and drinks.
They pasted his picture on every single key on my keyboard, save four – C, A, G, and E.
They pasted his face on every single picture of me in the entire house.
They glued him on my dog.
I have found Nick in my socks, buried in the sugar, taped to the inside of a coffee cup, in drawers, under speakers, in my pants pockets hanging in my closet and scores and scores of other places.
Really, the freakin’ things are everywhere.
So far, I’ve located about 123 of them so somewhere in my house are six more Cages silently waiting for me to stumble upon them.
Man, I hate Nicholas Cage…more than ever now.
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