[Cont.]
It was entirely unnecessary, even gratuitous, for me to do the land-grab above; because I already own several acres of farmland just south and west and east of the Mississippi. Also north of the Mississippi. The reason I was working as a day-laborer at someone else’s farm in the earlier chapter is that I wanted to experience how it feels to be treated like dirt by your fellow man. Now I have all the knowledge that I need in order to focus on amassing my own personal fortune selfishly, without any qualm of conscience.
So I till my land. I yoke my oxen to plows. I hug my horses and lure them to water and beg them to drink. I plant potatoes. I rent a hoe from a big-box tool store. I beget children upon my wife without ever removing her apron. And our crops are abundant — corn, beans, pineapples, radishes — they burst forth like cleavage from a corset. Then I store our harvest in silos. And that is all.
Now, my main problem with this style of living is that my neighbors who own the badlands that border my country can’t keep their livestock in their own yard. For instance, their pigs roam over onto my side and nibble all the forbidden fruit in my Southeast Pleasure Garden, and then they clog the Crystal Waterfall with their manure. Additionally my western neighbors’ horses come and trample all over my dieffenbachia, which I was keeping in a pot near the border to mark the leftmost extremity of my property line. The only neighbors I can tolerate, in fact, are my northern ones: the glorious Hyperboreans. I like them a lot. I might try to marry all of their women.
So, being that it’s Tuesday again and we’re out of pork, I take a trip to the supermarket. And that requires me to stop at the filling station to buy gas for the motor coach. Then it turns out that the place is being robbed when I arrive, so the gunmen point their rifles at me and say “Get against the wall.” Of course, I refuse: Pulling out both of my six-shooters, I spend all my bullets while walking backwards towards my automobile. (I end up hitting nothing.) When I get in, I note that at least sixteen bullets have penetrated the frame of my vehicle, so gas is leaking out of the sides. Therefore I continue to drive down the road; this time following the speed limit, because I don’t want to go thru the nightmare of being pulled over again. Finally I make it to the supermarket. I enter the French glass double doors, as they open automatically:
I head toward the canned-foods section. I sink my teeth into a can of tomato soup and drain it to the dregs. I then eat a whole lamb’s liver that is wrapped in cellophane, instead of just sniffing it and putting it back on the shelf. Then I buy the pork that I came here for, after eyeing my grocery list that has only this single item written upon it. And finally I drive myself home safely.
When I arrive at my farmhouse, I wave my green kerchief overhead and my family comes bursting out of the saloon-style doors and hugs me.
“What did you bring us, father?” the children say.
“Yes, what did you pick up at the marketplace for us to eat this morning?” sez my overly pregnant wife.
I hold up two plastic bags, and the children cheer.
“But what is it?” sez my super-pregnant wife.
“It’s bacon!” I say.
Then we all go inside the farmhouse and fry up some pork. Then I microwave some lentils for those of my children who are transitioning to veganism. Then I eat the lentils myself because they smell too good to waste on my ignorant progeny; and I serve my wannabe-vegan kids the same bacon that I gave to the meat-lovers among my tribe. While doing this, I reason to myself: “If they ask ‘What is this?’ I will answer ‘It is lentils in the shape of bacon strips’.” But none of them even ends up making a peep.
Then we attend church as a family. When we arrive, the pastor is at the pulpit, petting a child.
“Do they pet children right out in front of the public, during the service now, without even trying to hide the act behind closed doors?” I ask my wife, who is still extremely pregnant.
“Yes,” sez my wife; “you should come to church more often.”
“I would like to destroy this church for the sake of humanity,” I whisper to my pregnant wife, knowing that I’m pressing my luck because she’s already on the verge of scolding me.
“Shh!” my wife shushes me loudly. “Don’t destroy the church. God wouldn’t like that.”
So we sit thru the rest of the sermon and then sing hymns praising the Lord; and, all the while, the priest keeps petting the child.
“That was a nice service,” sez my pregnant wife on the way home, “I really needed that.”
“I guess God is good,” I shrug.
I try to avoid driving into any of the swamps that riddle the landscape. Alas, I end up hitting a few; but the children are able to push us out of them without much hassle.
On the side of the road, just before we round the corner to our farmhouse, I notice my old friend Bartleby the Scrivener.
“Bart! What are you doing here?” I shout out the window of our automobile. “I thought that you ‘would prefer not to’ participate in this nonsense.” and I wink pretentiously.
“I would prefer not to be here either; but somehow I found myself existing in the present situation, after staring so long at that wall,” he sez.
“O-o-oh,” I gasp, covering my mouth; then pull ahead as quietly as my engine will rev.
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