After an entire week of digging through a horse farm in Michigan, the FBI has announced an end to its search for the missing body of mafia legend Jimmy Hoffa.
Unfortunately, no evidence as to its whereabouts was uncovered.
The public will be pleased to note, however, that the hundreds of thousands of dollars wasted on looking for it can now be redirected back into finding out - once and for all - the exact number of licks it takes to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Roll Pop.
And just why is this search for Jimmy Hoffa so important to begin with? Aren't there real people out there suffering from real problems that deserve priority over a dead white guy? What long-lasting historical significance could possibly justify the outpouring of so many physical, mental and financial resources in order to locate a 36-year-old cadaver?
If you find yourself asking any of these questions, then apparently you've never heard the term "book rights" before. Because, with any luck, someone will get to the end of this wild goose chase while Tom Hanks is still young enough to play them in the remake.
Actually, there's a lot more to the story of Jimmy Hoffa than meets the eye. Sure, most of you probably know of him solely through his "post-missing" contributions to society - such as providing American journalists a reliable headline name to fall back on during slow news days. But too often the lore surrounding his disappearance overshadows the truly amazing things he accomplished while still alive.
Sure, there seems to be an incredible number of conspiracy theories and urban legends about who killed Jimmy Hoffa and what they did with the body. Some say that he's buried beneath the turf of Giants Stadium in New York City. Still others - namely, me - claim that he was processed with a batch of pimentos at an Oscar Meyer plant and redistributed across the country in bright yellow packages.
"My bologna has a first name, it's J-I-M-M-Y."
No matter what you choose to believe about his death, however, the life of Jimmy Hoffa was far too extraordinary to be lost in the wake of this post-mortum mythology. In fact, perhaps if his life were explained in more depth, then some of these silly stories surrounding his death would be curtailed.
As a young man, Jimmy spent most of his time as a struggling author writing poems under the pen name "Anonymous". Then one day in 1947, while rummaging around in the basement of the Alamo, Hoffa stumbled across a weather balloon which he accidentally crashed into a flying saucer over a field in Roswell, New Mexico.
The US government refused to believe his story and deported him to Russia to think about what he did. By 1963, Hoffa had already formed strong ties with a group of mad scientists who, out of respect for his win over Bobby Fischer in a chess match, cloned him. The following summer, both Jimmy and the Clone aided as second and third shooters in a co-conspiracy to kill JFK. They were both bad shots, however, and completely missed.
Finally, after a squabble over who would get to play Neil Armstrong in the moon hoax, Jimmy killed his clone by hanging him from a tree on the nearby "Wizard of Oz" set.
And that, my friends, is the true story of Jimmy Hoffa. I heard it from Bigfoot, Bigfoot heard it from Elvis and Elvis read it in the most recent issue of the Weekly World News.
Now, can we please figure out this whole Tootsie Roll thing?
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