Yesterday while I was digging for a trinket in the bottom of the Cocoa Puffs, I had an idea.
If I were really really old, and I had all of these special needs for things like healthy heart butter and fat free popcorn and all of the other trappings of being old and rich, I’d hire a team of people from Peru, with their Peruvian Fighting Frogs, fine cattle, and housekeepers to come entertain me in my mansion/barn.
I’d be rude to the housekeepers, and name them all Phil even if they were named Consuela and Hermanie or Choog. “Phil, come here Phil. No not you Phil, the other Phil! Go clean my toilet Phil, and get Phil on your way there.” I’d demand they clip my fingernails with diamond edged clippers, and save the clippings in their hair nets, because that would be an evil and dastardly thing to do. Because I’d be a dastard if I were old.
I’d train the cattle to cart me around on their backs – they’d need to be syncronized in their steps to provide me with an even surface to languish on, and if they took a wrong step, I’d slap them in there mouths and udders right in front of their children, as a means of embarrasment so that they wouldn’t make the mistake of interrupting my languish ever again.
The idea I came up with was to write children’s books about hunting. I’ve never hunted before, because I love animals, but if I were to hunt down an animal and kill it, I’d use a whip to do it. You can whip animals really hard, and I bet you could whip a tiger to death if you spent enough time and were good with the whip. I think maybe also that if you weren’t good with the whip, you could wear football cleats, and cleat a tiger to death, then bring it to a fine eating establishment to have it prepared for you in a light, dry, butter sauce with parsley garnish.
I’m going to book a hunting excursion for my Austrian Holiday, which is coming up soon. I’ll stay at a hunting lodge and wear sheepskin trousers.