Opinion: Unveiled: The sad tale of Marty Eisenstadt

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Once upon a time there was a boy named Martin. He was a sickly child growing up in rural Austria in a family so poor that it couldn’t afford its own last name.

So, Martin’s father, Vince, and his mother, coincidentally named Vince, took the name of their town, Eisenstadt. (See photo)

Martin Eisenstadt was a lonely child, slow but short. He didn’t play with other children because they always made him the ball.

Vince devoted little time to his son, who was a geek before there were things to be geeky about. Vince spent his days muttering about Mozart and making shoes (‘Cobbled Shoes for Cobblestones’). Martin’s mother was also busy.

However, Marty, as his friend called him, discovered that he could attract adult attention by telling stories, which he did every night by the fire long after his parents fell asleep. The wilder Martin’s stories, the louder they snored. This made Martin feel worthy and valued and he was still telling stories when the Vinces awoke at dawn to shave.

Martin told stories about dragons and demons. He told stories about rich relatives who didn’t exist. He claimed to advise famous people. He told stories about wolves in the woods waiting to eat careless Amway salesmen. No one in Eisenstadt paid much attention to Eisenstadt because he was so emotionally needy.

Soon, laptop computers were invented and Martin discovered the Internet where few had heard of Eisenstadt. He told stories there too, big ones. He pretended to be important, tall, wise and handsome.

Since no one could see how ugly and misshapen Martin really is, he told fantastic tales of his own knowledge and contacts and spread them online. He only targeted the most important websites -- Huffington Post, MSNBC, The Ticket.

One day Martin told a fantastic tale about a woman, Paris Hilton, he had loved since the night he first saw her in an Internet film clip. To impress, Martin made up a story about Paris’ rich grandfather. He said things about the old man’s generous Republican donations and criticized someone named John McCain, who’d implied Paris was a mere celebrity.

After publishing his story Martin waited in his fuzzy slippers, hoping Paris would find him in his dank Schenectady basement.

But instead early last summer, a blog called The Ticket saw Martin’s made-up story and, never having been to Eisenstadt to hear the sad story of Eisenstadt, it mentioned some of Martin’s fictitious details about Paris’ grandpa and his nonexistent anger with McCain. How silly was that?

Then, that blog corrected itself in an item just like this.

--Andrew Malcolm