The Picture of Dorian Block

 

If it were only the other way! 

If only it were I who were always young and there were to be a painting of me that would grow old. (Alright, so in my case if it were I who was aways 75-years-old and there were to be a painting of me that would grow as old as Rupert Murdoch, only without the array of young wives.)

For that I would give everything, including my Mike Schmidt Philadelphia Phillies No. 20 jersey. 

And so it was that I, Dorian Block, sought to secure a talented artist to paint a portrait of me which - while I myself aged not one whit further - would transform itself over time into a likeness of William Shatner but minus the deceased furry woodland creature atop his head. 

I thereupon attempted a search via the Google and through its auspices shortly located a painter named Basil Wayward and arranged in prompt order a meeting at his studio.                

"Mr. Wayward," I inquired, "can you undertake the art of portraiture with the express purpose of rendering a painting of my humble self to assist me in stemming the onrushing tide of aging?"  

"Holy crap, do you ever talk like a Victorian novel!" he replied. "But yes, I can do that."

"Do you have any references, Mr. Wayward?"

"You are familiar with the actor Paul Rudd?"

"Of course," I said.

"In his attic is a portrait of Mr. Rudd that looks exactly like Keith Richards."

          

"You're hired, sir," I exclaimed, "you're so damn hired!" 

And on the morrow I began the process of sitting for my age-defying portrait  with Mr. Wayward. True, I was a little disappointed to discover that Mr. Wayward's  specialties were finger painting and paint by numbers and but hey, what ya gonna do?  And yet Mr. Wayward began painting in earnest and in no small manner due to The Importance of Being Ernest, the painting began to take shape.

Within several weeks Mr. Wayward completed his handiwork and presented it to me with the words "I think, kind sir, The Picture of Dorian Block may very well be my masterpiece," and I graciously accepted the image of my 75- year-old self and squired it home to ensconce firmly and securely in my attic. 

Soon, however, an unexpected happenstance resulted. Freed from the ravages of time, my personality, inclinations, and behavior began to metamorphosize, and within scant order my life became a maelstrom of depravity and sin!

I had sexual relations with the entire East Coast staff of A Place for Mom, 

I found myself lying, cheating, and stealing in all my personal and business relationships including a bald-faced lie to Tom Selleck that the procuring of a reverse mortgage was indeed "the best thing I've ever done, without a doubt," and

I engaged in a sordid array of interpersonal acts so reprehensible that not even Sling would have let me do that!

As the years flew by, I felt my humanity slipping away and darkness enveloping my soul.  And what of the painting?  

Finally one day, racked with guilt and remorse, I  tore into the attic to witness what foul reality my now highly advanced age and profligate wickedness had visited upon the canvas that Basil Wayward had painted lo those many years ago!

And what I saw was, what I saw was....

Wow.  

Looks like this was Basil's masterpiece, after all.

Y'know, I think I can milk me a few more years of depravity out of it, without a doubt!

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