My Friend, That Bastard, Benjamin Franklin

Doubtless you've heard of Benjamin Franklin, the famous inventor, statesman, and politician. But you probably don't know the real Benjamin: lazy, unreliable Benjamin Franklin, my so-called best friend. For as long as I’ve known him, that guy has cheated me, taking ideas that I had, and turning them into profitable businesses. That’s why I want to go to business school—to get back at him, and get some fame and fortune of my own.

Growing up on Long Island was tough for Benjamin and me. We were both bookish types, reading anything we could get our hands on, whether it was science, literature, or Benjamin’s favorite, burlesque chapbooks. We did everything together, so when I did a Westinghouse project, Benjamin naturally followed suit. My project took six months to put together, including summer research at Boston University. Benjamin, as usual, took advantage of me. A week before the papers were due, we were at a keg party. He was pissing me off, complaining about how much work he had to do, how his project (something about dirigibles) was never going to get done. Just to get rid of him I said, “There’s a thunderstorm outside. Go up to the roof and fly this kite. Put a key on the string. Maybe you can learn about electricity.” Actually, what I wanted to happen was for him to get the crap shocked out of himself. But wouldn’t you know it; he turned it into a Westinghouse project, and won the whole thing. He didn't even mention me in his acceptance speech, saying something about his “preternatural love for thunderstorms.” Excuse me your French ambassadorship, but that's a load of hooey.

After graduating from Yale, we both ended up back in New York writing for The Abercrombie and Fitch Quarterly. Yet again I did enough work for both of us, writing stories such as “The Greatest Movie Theaters in the United States,” “The Truth about Telephone Psychics,” and “Joey Skaggs: The World's Greatest Hoaxer.” I also learned the ins-and-outs of the fashion advertising business from Sam Shahid, who was designing accounts for Abercrombie and Fitch and Naturalizer. But did Benjamin learn from Sam? Did he appreciate the opportunity to reach an audience of hundreds of thousands? Of course not — instead, he complained about how cold the room was and how it inflamed his gout. Just to shut him up, I whanged some metal pipes together and created a wood-burning stove. Not feeling a need for glory, I didn't think to name it anything in particular. But the next thing I know, there's old Benjamin, sitting there with his face on an infomercial making money hand over fist selling “Franklin Stoves.”

A few years later, after some hotly contested lawsuits (pun intended), we were friends again. While in New York (formerly New Amsterdam) I tried my hand at stand-up comedy, partly to tell jokes, and partly to attack my fear of public speaking. Of course, Benjamin decided to join me and we performed around the city as a team, bringing back vaudeville. Just as we were about to get our big break, performing in front of the Continental Congress, I got a note in my dressing room: “We’d like you to be Ambassador to France, but you must decide this moment and leave immediately.” Of course I turned it down, not wanting to leave my friend onstage alone in front of George Washington, a notorious heckler. But as you well know, Benjamin had no such compunction and left for France right then and there. I hope you never feel the shame and humiliation, as I did, of hearing Thomas Jefferson yell, “Get a f#@%ing act, ye uƒeleƒƒ loƒer!”

And this, in short, is why I want to attend the Stern school. I've had too many years dealing with Benjamin's theft of my ideas for his own benefit. (I still can’t talk about bifocals.) I sincerely hope that after I graduate from Stern, the shoe will be on the other gout-ridden foot, and instead of it being “all about the Benjamins,” it will be “all about the Roberts.”