My lawyers advised me against writing this. This is a “tricky” matter, they said, one which should be handled “with discretion.” But they’ve been regurgitating that skubala for decades. Fifty years of futile effort and zero progress. And with all the talk these days about originality and ownership, it’s time to speak my truth: I invented the goddamn Pet Rock.

           Hello, I’m Sisyphus. Maybe you’ve heard of me: King of Ephyra (now Corinth), cunning and cut (you see the abs), cheater of death twice-over. My allegedly devious ways landed me in hot lava with the so-called gods. They forced me to roll a big-ass boulder up a hill—only for it to fall back down over and over again. For-ev-er. But I paid my dues. I pushed that rock. I’m still pushing, truth be told.

           And over the millennia, I’ve built a bond with this boulder of mine. Let’s just say ours is a very hands-on relationship. (Quality time is my love language.) I know every blessed crack, every cursed pocket. I take it for walks, taught it to roll over. It’s my loyal companion and best friend, holding me down for life. My rock is my rock. I treat it, one might say, like a pet.

           So imagine my surprise in 1975 when I heard some American grifter stole my whole flow to get rich quick. This Kris Kringle-looking ad copywriter named Gary Ross Dahl (like that’s even his real name). He was at a bar with friends, the story goes, presumably drunk as hell, joking about how his ideal pet was a rock. Hysterical! He bought beach stones from Mexico, stuck them in a cardboard case, wrote a “rock care” manual and bam! Just like that, this pebble peddler was pushing 100,000 a day for $3.95 a pop. By Christmas, he’d sold more than a million of these bad boys with sticky fingers and a straight face.

           Overnight millionaire? Overnight swindler!

           Look, I know how this sounds. Like I’m some bitter, older-than-dirt man, grasping for a piece of a pie I didn’t bake. But all I have is my truth. Did I coin the name? No. I can be honest about that. (I was torn between Boulder Buddy™ and My Stoned Friend™.) But this pet rock concept was all Sisyphus. Ask Zeus. Ask Hades. The Greeks know what’s up. This isn’t about a payout. For me, this is personal. For Gary Ross Dahl, this was a joke.

           “There was a whole lot of bad news going on,” he said. “People were down. It wasn’t a real good time for the national psyche. I think the Pet Rock was just a good giggle. Everybody needed a good laugh and the media ate it up.”

           From Newsweek to the The Tonight Show, the whole damn country was swinging from his snake-oiled-up nutsack. Jane & Michael Stern's Encyclopedia of Pop Culture called the story of the Pet Rock “a never-ending source of inspiration to create new crazes that sweep the nation and make millions for the genius who thought of them.” But no-fucking-body asked this inspiring craze-creator the most critical question: Where did you get the idea?

           Fifty years later, the joke is on us—especially me. He exploited my pain for profits. Made a mockery of my eternal suffering to create a flash-in-the-pan fad. With this concept of a toy, he toyed with all of us—a concept I created way back BCE! And some of you might be saying: “Sisyphus, let it go. Gary Ross Dahl passed away in 2015. Why you bringing up old stuff?” And maybe you’re right. Maybe this is pointless. Despite the rise of generative AI and endless debates around IP and plagiarism and the rights of original creators, maybe I should just shut up and roll.

           But have I not suffered enough?