I feel bad for most people.

Maybe I even pity them. Why? Simply because few of you will ever feel the honor, glory, prestige, and chick-pulling power that come from being a member of an elite group known as blimp pilots.

Yes, I am one of the few and proud, the best of the best, a wonderboy, if you will. The air in a blimp is rarified, as is the esteem. Women want me and men want to be me.

However, I am no senator’s son from a privileged family. Quite the contrary, my background is a rough one. Hey, let’s face it, the world is an unfair place. An unfair place if you have stereotypically good looks and influence. But, when you are a 1-foot-tall pug with a “stocky” build and can only see out of one eye, then getting accepted into Blimp Top Gun School is one mean feat. Even though I am not an actual a bulldog (close) I have that mentality and refuse to quit.

My life began in an orphanage (a.k.a. Humane Society) where I was dumped by my first set of guardians due to an injury caused by poor parenting. I was adopted numerous times by poor foster parents until enough was enough and it was time for me to forge my way in the world. After a series of unfulfilling jobs and some tries at college, it seemed there was no career calling for me.

One day while I was relieving myself on a lawn outside a football stadium, it happened. The famous Goodweek Blimp flew over my head in an awesome flash of silver and blue. At that moment under the phallus shaped shadow my life changed forever. I knew then flying big slow fan-powered balloons was the only job for me.

The next day I turned up at Blimp Top Gun School to submit my application. Upon my arrival I was immediately denied entrance. The hulking woman at the desk said brusquely “you don’t fit into the height/weight requirements, you’re blind in one eye, you have horrible chronic halitosis, and in the two minutes here you’ve licked your self in the nether regions at least six times.”

I was devastated. As I sat in despondency and drank heavily over the next few days, my mind pored over what to do.

Then I had it. This is America, and Americans are tough and resilient. What would any good American do?

Sue, baby, sue.

So I did, and six weeks later I was not only flying blimps, but also owned 51 percent of the school thanks to my discrimination suit. Not fit for the job my butt, tell it to my lawyer at Beelzebub Johnson Monroe and Lucifer.

So now I am on easy street with good pay and benefits, not to mention the extreme adrenaline rush of flying a machine that tops out at a nerve-racking 24.6 mph with a good tail wind. All the good football games are mine to fly over. Soon I will have Lasik on my bad eye so I can see the cheerleaders better. The moral of this story is if things don't go your way, just sue.

As far as the “haters” out there who are jealous of me, I say “don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

Peace out.