I know, I know, museums usually suck shit. They put all these glass display cases at the perfect leaning height and the second you put your weight on them, guess what? They shatter to a million pieces and you get escorted out. And why do the security guards have to constantly yell at you because you keep smushing Silly Putty into all the exhibits? Bro, I bought this Silly Putty from your gift shop, so why don’t we try treating the cause rather than the symptoms?
And perhaps most egregiously, how many times have you seen a wax figure in a museum, thought to yourself, “Jackpot!” and began rubbing your greasy little plump hands together in anticipation of finding out exactly what those creepy fucks feel like before seeing the dreaded “Please do not touch the exhibits!” sign?
This has happened to me over 100 times, and on at least a dozen of those occasions I was so rattled that I completely blew a best man speech I was supposed to deliver that night. (Basically I’m addicted to the thrill, debauchery, and sense of brotherhood that comes with bachelor parties. So I befriend guys and get close enough to them so that they ask me to be their best man and then I drop them like a sack of potatoes right after the wedding. I know it’s wrong but I can’t stop myself.)
To combat our nation’s museum crisis, I did what anyone with a big entrepreneur brain would do: I lied about opening a sports bar and asked my ex-father-in-law to invest in it. Then I misappropriated the funds and low-balled a museum in Plymouth, Massachusetts into selling me one hundred wax statues of sick Pilgrims from their “passengers who didn’t survive the Mayflower” exhibit for a dirt cheap price.
Honestly, I shouldn’t have bought so many of them. They really overcrowd the six hundred square foot museum (which is also my apartment). You’re encouraged to take one of these things home with you when you leave.
The best part is, not only do we let you touch the exhibits, but we’re the first-ever museum that lets you give the exhibits a little kiss and whisper a secret in their ears (in fact it’s required that you do so). And I want it to be a juicy secret. You can’t just say something like, “I was arrested in 2015 for kidnapping my ex-wife’s husband and trying to drive his jet ski straight down into the ocean to ‘bring him to Hell.’” It’s not a secret since arrest records are public and any bozo who can use Google can find that out about me. You’ve got to divulge, at the very least, a “name of your crush” caliber secret.
Feel free to say whatever secret you want. This is your opportunity to get creative!
The only downside about letting everyone touch and kiss the wax figures is they get all oily and we have to hose them down once a week (I’m talking heavy-duty power washing and occasional sandblasting). After a few times, that kind of smooths out their facial features, so their heads just kind of look like big eggs. But in my opinion, it’s kind of a positive because it’s easier to tell a secret to something that has no judgmental eyes. As the saying goes, “The faceless pilgrim tells no tales.”
And if you visited in the past and were disappointed, I encourage you to come again. I’ve changed my locks without my landlord’s permission, so he won’t be barging in and yelling at everyone ever again.
I should also mention that I have begun to hear the wax figures speaking to me and sometimes they want me to do bad things. But luckily, I’m very business savvy, so a lot of the time, I know not to listen to them because it would hurt our profits (burning the entire building down, as they often instruct me to do, is something I’d never follow through with because that would cut into our bottom line; people can’t come to the museum if there is no museum, obviously). So get your kissing lips ready, because these hot and sexy sick pilgrims are waiting to get poked, prodded, and smooched by you.
By the way, you don’t have to fear them, even though I believe they are either alive, or at the very least they’re being used as vessels for malicious spirits. I am their ruler, and they dare not disobey me. Every day, I randomly select one wax figure to swing a baseball bat at and knock its head clean off. This serves as a reminder to the rest of them to stay in line. Many of them are growing angry with me, but what are they going to do? Rise up and kill me? Yeah, they threaten to do exactly that every night when they visit me in my dreams, but it’s just tough talk. They’re not going to do jack shit.