An Upgrade Carol

So there I was, minding my own business, counting my money like any miser would do on the eve of his 30th birthday. (Unfortunately, it didn't take as long as I might have hoped)! I took a spoonful of my Quakers Instant Oatmeal, curiously wondering if perhaps I had undercooked it just a tad; it just didn't taste "instant" enough for me, if you know what I mean. I was alone in the house; my pregnant wife and four-year-old son off to visit my wife's sister. (Yes...thanks a ton dear, I'll make a note to remember to make your 30th birthday special, too)! Finished counting my money, and not terribly impressed with the sum that lay in front of me, I wondered what I should do to increase my wealth. Should I become an artist? I realized I had absolutely no talent, but as far as I was concerned, neither did Pablo Picasso. That looked like the perfect scam: draw abstract stuff so absurd that the "experts" would be so confused that they didn't want to admit they saw no real value in the work, so that they would pretend it was awesome, and then everybody would follow suit because they didn't want to be seen as shallow! It was very confusing (just like my last sentence, but I'm on a real time crunch here so you're going to have to just deal with it). One of the most vital components to being a critic in any of the arts is to just act like you know something that nobody else does, nine times out of ten nobody will challenge you on it for fear of ridicule. Then I thought the same thing about writing: Grab a pen, paper, thesaurus, somebody else's story line (but change it just enough to withstand a court challenge), and presto: you're Norman Freaking Mailer! Then I remembered back to the time I was almost five years old and thought about becoming a writer (I was very impressed with Dr. Seuss), but on the eve of my fifth birthday I had a really bad dream where I was visited by three really nasty ladies (as I recall their names were Emerin, Ariana and Mireyah - pretty scary, huh)?; the dream had a profoundly negative impact on me and I chose to do something else. And I think I became pretty ornery and miserly as a result of their visit.
Then I heard the door slam, I hear someone (in obvious cardiac distress) laboring up the steps (good thing I wasn't living in a high-rise) and then came a knock on the door. Which turned out to be a waste of time, because a split-second later he came right through the door (good thing I had just finished putting my "jammies" on, otherwise this story might have gone in another direction)! I recognized him immediately: my deceased business partner, Bob Marley.
I said, "Bob, you look great," (sort of a half truth because he looked pretty decayed, but on the other hand, to be moving around at all, for a guy that had been dead for seven years, he looked pretty chipper), "but you're going to have to make it super-brief because I'm on a 500 word limit and at the end of this line I'm already at 537 words."
Bob looked at me with obvious disgust (well, as obvious as it can be with a dead guy with rotting facial muscles), and roared. Then he apparently composed himself, and said,"Mon, you should have listened to the three women. One thinks you're too drawn out in your writing, one thinks you're too abrupt, and one thinks you're just right."
It was now my turn to roar. "Bob, you idiot! What do you have, a cadaver's version of Alzheimer's? You're referring to The Three Bears! I'm trying to rip off A Christmas Carol." Now you've taken me even further over the limit - now I'm at 650 words! You probably cost me a shot at an Upgrade Aides award! Not to mention the associated glory and all the gift points I could be swimming in. Thanks, pal. Former pal. Dead former pal. Dead former pal with Alzheimer's. Now get out of here, before I call Ghostbusters. Heck, I might as well rip that off too!
And take about 275 of these words with you; that's probably about how many I'm over."
Bob turned, head down, and drifted through the door, apparently not taking any words with him (as the total was still climbing).
Hopelessly over the word count, and lacking the energy to perform the massive editing trim that would be necessary to make this story "legal," I, word count rebel, buried my face in my hands.
Hey, what am I sweating...I can always be an artist!