Dear diary,
I wake on the hay bale with a piece of straw in my mouth. After rising and stretching, I enter the cowshed and moo at the cattle — and they moo back: we’re basically saying “Good morning” to each other. Then, while clothed, I bathe in the icy pond. The water is so freezing that, despite being fully attired, the shock of the extreme temperature triggers a heart attack. Additionally I suffer two strokes and a few aneurysms; but none of this kills me: I power thru it all like a trooper (for I don’t want my storybook to end yet). This also happens to be the point in my life when I begin to show signs of severe dementia; nevertheless, since the global economy is so bad that all other earthlings are either constantly on hard drugs or exhausted from overwork, nobody can tell that I’m physically and mentally ill: I just come off as normal.
Climbing out of the water, I dry myself off with a fluffy white towel. When finished, I drape this towel over the statue of a Lamb that is positioned near the shore. I bought this little clay Lamb from the Effigy Kiosk at the mall — it was an attempt to emulate my hero, God, who keeps an actual living breathing Lambkin chained to his throne. The sculptors at the Kiosk will fashion clay idols by request: all you have to do is provide them a photo to work from.
After shoveling a few heaps of coal into the firebox of my pontoon’s steam engine, the barge lurches forth; and soon I’m speeding thru intersection after intersection on the busy local streets, until I crash thru the Mega Mall’s glass doors. I leave the pontoon barge parked where it is, blocking the entryway to the Pet Store, and I begin to windowshop.
Soon my windowshopping graduates to actual purchasing; for I find a couple of items that appeal to me so much that I can’t help but succumb to my impulse to possess them:
First I stop and admire the display in the shop window of the Sawmill Seller. There are several sawmills tastefully arranged along the bay; and each is festooned in fine white lace. I fall in love with the one that’s the cutest. So I enter the store and say to the cashier: “How much for the sawmill on the far left, in your window display over yonder?”
“You mean the water-powered one from Norfolk, England?” the cashier replies.
“No, no,” I say, turning around to check the display again and then turning back to face the cashier: “No, no, no, no, no: you’re talking about the one that appears on the left when viewed from WITHIN the shop — but I was talking about the one that’s on the left when viewed from OUTSIDE the shop. Just imagine that you’re standing in the hallway of the mall, windowshopping: All the directions are then reversed.”
“Oh!” sez the cashier: “Ten thousand apologies! My mistake! I see what you mean now — you’re talking about the sawmill from Luchon, France, circa 1920.”
“YES! EXACTLY!” I smile and cheer: “How much for that one?”
So we settle up my bill, and I become the proud owner of a brand new (old/used) sawmill.
I stand for a moment admiring my latest acquisition: I press its buttons and run my hand over its sharp blades. Then I return to walking thru the Mega Mall, now pushing my useful cart. (The Mill Mart allowed me to take one of their pushcarts for free, to haul my purchase, because sawmills are so heavy and awkward-shaped: they didn’t want me to hurt my back hauling it around; for I told them that I aimed to keep browsing the mall, at least thru the late forenoon.)
After gawking at window after window of attractive commodities, I stop before the display at the Blast Furnace Shop. I press my face to the glass in disbelief; then I immediately enter and shout aloud to the saleswoman:
“That there is the finest blast furnace I’ve ever laid eyes on,” I point behind me, to the display, “I simply MUST have it.”
“Which model?” sez the saleswoman; “the one on the left?”
“No.”
“The one on the right?”
“NO-O-O!” I point harder and begin to jab my hand so as to clarify my intent.
“Ah, of course,” she nods, “everyone inquires about the central blast furnace from Gerdau, Brazil; but then when I tell them the price, they sigh and leave heartbroken because no mortal can afford it.”
“Well I am not your average mortal,” I say; “and I will pay any amount that you ask.”
“Are you sure?” sez the saleswoman. “You look and act like an average mortal. You must be independently wealthy?”
“No, the only reason I bear a striking resemblance to the ultra-rich is that I came down with debilitating diseases earlier this morning, after my clothed swim in the icy pond,” I explain. “The ordeal knocked me down a couple pegs. But I was hoping that you’d let me run a tab.”
“You want to purchase the blast furnace on credit?” the saleswoman clarifies.
“That’s correct,” I say. “Preferably you could set me up with a type of gentleman’s agreement where I wouldn’t be expected to pay back the loan.”
“Sure, we could do that. Just let me draw up the paperwork.”
“Um... no paperwork, please,” I say, slightly embarrassed to be making so much trouble for this helpful, friendly worker: “I strongly dislike filling out forms, and I’d rather just do a handshake deal, if that’s OK with you.”
“Oh, I’d be the one who performs all the clerical work,” sez the saleswomen. “You don’t need to do anything, on your end.”
“But I don’t even like looking at paperwork,” I say. — Then I jerk my head as if a new thought has just struck me: “Wait a minute. You say that I won’t even need to put my signature on the dotted line of each document?”
“Yes, that’s right: I can just rubber-stamp them.”
Now I think a little more... Then I shake my head and say: “Nah; even then, it’s too much hassle. Just tell your boss that you agreed to let me buy the furnace on credit, with a wink and a nod. Hint that someday I’ll square things up with a political favor or whatnot. Tell him that you expect everything will work out fine in the long run — there’s nothing to worry about, because he and I are both well-bred members of the Ruling Class.”
The saleswoman shrugs, smiling, and sez: “Alright, suit yourself,” while tossing the reams of paperwork in the trash.
After helping me load the blast furnace onto my pushcart (we lower it down carefully next to the sawmill), the saleswoman kisses me on the cheek and returns to the store.
Now I wave from outside, to regain the woman’s attention, for I realize that there’s something I forgot to ask her. She stares blankly for a while, oblivious to the fact that I’m signaling; but then I happen to catch her eye — I’m standing opposite the display window, flailing my arms. The saleswoman quickly returns to the front door and leans out: “Yes? Did we forget something?”
“I forgot to ask you one question,” I say.
“OK,” she raises her eyebrows and waits for a few moments. “Are you going to ask me now?”
“Yes,” I say: “I was wondering if this blast furnace that I just purchased is capable of smelting pig iron. Cuz that’s what I plan to use it for.”
“Of course,” sez the saleswoman. “It’ll work to produce just about any industrial metal that you can imagine.”
“Really?” I say. “Are you sure? Cuz I can imagine some pretty weird stuff.”
“So can I,” the woman flashes a naughty smile.
We both stand there silently with our hearts beating.
Finally the saleswoman sez: “Can I get you anything else?”
After a pause, I answer: “No, I think that’s all… Thanks so much for all your help!”
“It was my pleasure,” she places her hand on her chest and watches me as I wheel my cart down the hall.
§
Soon I see a small store that specializes in selling scented soaps, so I end up purchasing several bars that have either of two distinct smells: sandalwood and lavender.
Then I walk over to the Ice Shop and buy a few extra-large cubes for my sub-zero pond.
Then I stop at an outlet called Lewd Lingerie, and I deliver a formal address to the sales team, saying:
“You won’t believe this, but it’s the honest truth: All the women of my household have uniquely attractive physiques, which happen to match with exactitude each of your own individual body-types. Lo, there are thirty-one of you, and I happen to own twelve wives and nineteen bondmaids. Now, it is my fervent desire to purchase garments from your establishment, and to gift these garments to each one of the damsels of my manor; yet I wish for every article to be perceived by its recipient as a pleasant surprise that fits perfectly and looks delectable. So, my hope is that you all will model countless undergarments for me today, and change into and out of these items before mine eyes. If you will do this for me, I promise that I will dote on whatever is tantalizing. Do we have a deal?”
The sales team gives an enthusiastic yes to my proposition, and, after many hours, I leave the shop with a silken heap of nightclothes and frillies, which I can use to fuel my blast furnace.
Finally, I stop at the Wood Store and buy some trees for my sawmill.
§
Upon reaching the exit of the Mega Mall, I find that my eyes were bigger than my stomach — by which I mean: I purchased more stuff than I can safely transfer onto my pontoon barge.
“If I try to lift all these treasures up by hand,” I remark to myself, “the combined weight will cause my spine to snap.”
Therefore I use a few spare parts that I am able to fish out of the dumpster behind the Pet Shop to build a Mechanical Ship-to-Shore Dockside Gantry Crane, which I employ to load my purchases onto my pontoon. Then I drive home and hit the hay after feeding my cows.
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