Part IV

Once more, my regular signature, which looks like it was drawn by a freebasing weasel:

So far, I had tried altering my signature in a number of ways, but what if I didn't even sign my own name? First, I lobbed a slow ball:

The waitress at the restaurant didn't say anything, probably because I am mistaken for Mariah Carey all the time. Except for the goatee and the back hair, we are like twins.

Next I decided to try:

The composer or the dog; you decide.

I cheated on this one, leaving it on the table and high-tailing it out of there. I expected a phone call from someone, maybe Beethoven's Hollywood agent, but once again I discovered that no one cared. Except, possibly, Lassie, who could use the publicity.

Drunk with power, I signed this on my next grocery shopping trip:

I think that's a somewhat effiminate signature for the leader of the gods, but I was in a hurry. The kid at the Trader Joe's looked strangely at the receipt, then back up at me, as if to say, "Are you really him?" I trucked out of there before he could ask, and in my haste to escape, nearly ran over an eight year-old standing in the doorway. I apologized, which was a dead giveaway, since the real Zeus would have just fried the kid with lightning. I'm such a fake Zeus.

Where could I go from here? The readers of ZUG had some suggestions.