I will be spending my day churning butter. That's not a euphemism for an erotic act; I genuinely own a wooden churn that I use to make fresh butter, which I give away as gifts on Christmas.
My closest friend is a goat named Commodore. He attracts wild female goats from the nearby mountains; that's where we get the milk that is whipped into cream and eventually becomes our famous homemade butter.
I also make white ruffles that can be sewed onto sleeves and lapels. One can never have enough white ruffles.
Today is Christmas Eve. Our extended family had planned to gather for brunch this morning: that was the only time that worked out for my brother and his wife and their two children (God recently gave them a new baby daughter); but then there was a last-minute plot twist and their family couldn't attend; so our mom had to break this news to me yestereven. She sent a text message that said:
"Paul's fam had to cancel; but you should still come over. I have tons of food prepared."
I wrote back: "I'd prefer not to."
So our get-together gave up the ghost. That's why I'm reclining here, relaxedly typing an essay about churning butter with wild goats and ruffles.
*
I also like professional wrestling. All the contestants are so muscular. And whoever wins gets to wear a golden Champion Belt. It's hard to say which accessory I'd treasure more: a gold championship belt that has the legend "BEST WRESTLER" engraved on the plate of its buckle, or a toque (the popular hat for chefs) on which is written "KISS THE COOK".
Did you know? Every morning I drink the finest quality coffee from a mug that sez "WORLD'S BEST DAD", even tho I am childless. This pisses off good fathers everywhere. Alternately I flaunt a "BEST GRANDPA" mug, which enrages all grandfathers.
And I recently cobbled together a flying motor-coach that actually works. It runs on tapwater, so its engine is Earth-friendly (replacing gasoline with tapwater as a fuel for vehicles is thought to be healthier for the environment). I invented this Single-Seat Aero-Car by welding together spare parts that I found on the roadside. But the automobile manufacturing monopoly doesn't want my invention to become publicly known, so their lawyers keep intimidating me with threats via e-mail. This works: I back down. They also send me attractive female senators who attempt to lure me into bed so that they can photograph our affair and use this evidence to hush me up:
"If you don't keep quiet about your marvelous little flying car, dear Bryan, we will publish these sizzling photos of you and Lucy on the front page of the newspaper," say the car industry's representatives.
"The free local paper?" I ask.
"Yes," they say.
"Just to clarify," I reply, "you're telling me that the folks who assemble the free news rag in our small town of Eagan are able to publish pornographic material on the front page, above the fold?"
"No," they say; "they would either need to blur out, pixelate, or superimpose black bars over the alluring parts of the pictures. But viewers would be able to infer their content."
"Ah," I say; "and I presume that Lucy would rather keep her relations with me private, since she's a U.S. senator who's soon facing re-election. OK, I see your point; you've got me by the throat. I will play ball: What exactly do you want?"
"That is simple: Put your business plans on the backburner."
I am aghast: "ALL of them? But I have so many!"
"No, you fool — just the ones for the flying car that is powered by tapwater."
So I comply with these representatives' wishes. The only reason I'm breaking my promises to them by telling YOU the truth about all this right now is that I've been celebrating the fact that this year's Christmas got canceled by drinking hard lemonade all morning, and I always end up talking too much when I'm tipsy. But, as far as I can remember, you're the only one I've told about these secrets, so, if you can keep them under your hat, you'll be helping Lucy maintain her position in government, and she can then continue passing legislation favorable to the automotive industry.
*
Now, just after I coax you into signing a non-disclosure agreement, we turn our heads and see three forms race past us on horseback: It is a damsel being chased by two British Knights.
Quickly donning my habergeon, I fetch my jousting lance and shield, then mount my stallion. I offer you my smoothest palfrey. You hop on and ride alongside me, as we gallop at top speed in the direction that the trio were headed. Our aim is to rescue the damsel from that pair of churls.
Soon we catch up to the pursuers: I jab my lance at the knight who's closest to me. This knocks him off his horse. You draw your sword and thrust at the other knight: your blade pierces his shield and penetrates through his chest-armor. He falls to the ground, and gore gushes from his wound.
The damsel looks back and sees that her would-be ravishers have been defeated. "Thank you," she sez. She lets down her blonde locks and we marvel at their beauty. We learn that this woman is a princess. She leads us to her castle. We meet her father, the king, who is a very wealthy man. He offers us a reward of infinite riches, and we humbly accept. We then spend the night in the castle's guest suite.
The next morning, we inform the king that we cannot stay here forever: in fact, we must leave immediately, because there are other distressed damsels for us to rescue. He reluctantly allows us to trot away on our steeds, but only after arranging a banquet for us, and demanding that we utilize the castle's bathing facilities.
So I indulge in a warm shower and massage the royal shampoo into my hair. After working it into a lather, I rinse and repeat.
No comments:
Post a Comment