I'm Going Camping

I saw Edmonde at the mall yesterday. He was buying a tent and a box of beef jerky. I was all, "Edmonde, you aren't legally allowed to buy all that beef jerky. Remember the restraining order." But he promptly ignored me, causing me to spill my soda all over myself. I mean, who does Edmonde think he is? I practically raised him, ever since his parents abandoned him in the Pennsylvanian woods. They thought to themselves one day, "Hey! You know how we can save a whole bunch of money? We can abandon our kids out in the woods behind our house!" The next day about fifty kids wandered onto my ranch near Philly. This big fat one walked right up to me and tried to poke my eye. I totally put the smack down on him; perhaps next time he'll think before he accosts a stranger in a parking lot.

But getting back to the other kids, I've never seen such a ragged group of non-union laborers. They were uncivilized, and reeked of pine-sol. The next day I taught them to stomp grapes and plant apple trees. By the end of the week, almost all of them had earned the required number of merit badges and were quickly being adopted by parents who wouldn't abandon them out in the woods again. All except for Edmonde. He was still on his first merit badge, and I was getting sick of him. So by the end of the second week, I had him shipped off to boarding school. That's where he met Colonel Chickenpox and the two of them began plotting against me.

It's not like I'm a static character. I'm not flat; I've got a lot more than two arch-enemies. I mean, there's Edmonde and the Colonel, but there's got to be a million others. Just look at Jimmy Dean. Not the famous one, but my neighbor, Jimmy Dean. He keeps getting my mail, because apparently, "Taker of Gist" and "Jimmy Dean" are spelled so similarly that the mail carriers have a hard time differentiating. But does Jimmy tell me he got my mail? Not at all. I have to drag myself over to his house in the middle of the night, wake his whole family up, and scream, "Did you get my mail?! Don't lie to me, President Dean!" But as it turns out, he (or at least his lawyer) believes that he never got any of my mail by mistake. Suddenly the world feels a lot smaller.

Art School

Art schools aren't something I'd look into most of the time. I mean, I'm a good artist. Good? I'm fantastico, as the King of Spain told me at my last birthday party. His exact words were, "¡Tomador del Quid, lavamos las manos antes comemos! ¡Ahora!" Then he took me out on the town, and we went down to the art district where I got him a dozen Picassos because he looked so depressed, being a mere prince. Yes, this was before he became the full-fledged King of Spain. And what does a mere prince know of diplomacy, or chocolate chip cookies, or dog training?

Turns out, he knew a lot. We were in roommate back in college, the King and I. Both of us were art majors, but he wasn't into it, really. He more or less went with the flow, unable to sit still for five minutes and plan out a roadmap to his future along the highway of scheduling. I should know, I was the school's registrar, and I couldn't talk to the man for five minutes about the difference between a mouse and a squirrel, let alone the number of classes and credits he needed to graduate within his lifetime. Every time I approached him and his friends, they threw soda and potatoes at me. Don't ask me where they got potatoes. I'm not from Idaho, I have no idea how potatoes grow. Why don't you ask Colonel Chickenpox?

Colonel Chickenpox is one of my oldest friends. The two of us really showed the government a thing or two when we refused to pay those lumber tariffs before importing lumber from Canada. Softwood, or so they say. But we really did need that lumber. The Colonel is an American hero, so why should he be forced to pay unreasonable tariffs like the average Joe Thousandaire? I mean, just look at Chickenpox's record. He's been melted on five separate occasions, and each time he comes back angrier and more patriotic than ever. Why, the last time he unmelted, he returned to life with not one, but two dollars. That's why he needs lumber, I think. It keeps him from remelting. The man is like Chuck Norris.

Walking The Dog

I love walking dogs. I've told you this before, haven't I? Every day of my life involves walking dogs from Slyvester Avenue to Voldemort Boulevard. They called me "Mr. Scooper" because I was always cleaning up after those two mongrels. It never would have occured to any of those fools that I was walking those dogs involuntarily. But sadly I never had the option of not being a dog walker. Back when I was a mere lad of seven, my father looked me straight in the eyes and told me, "Son, I know that I'm a corporate tycoon and we've got millions for your education, but I want you to grow up and be a professional dog walker."

And ever since that day I've thought of nothing but walking dogs. Oh, how I love dogs! Terriers, spaniels, beagals. Bagels! Hot bagels with cream cheese on them! Sure they're not dogs, but they taste delicious. I should know; back in high school, I was captain of the Taste Testing Team. The TTT as it was known was founded back in the days before formal atire became the norm in acedemia. I distinctly remember receiving an inquiry into my taste testing abilities before they would let me anywhere near their reactor. Never before have I felt so insulted.

The captain of the TTT was none other than Edmonde (of course), and it was all his fault that I was rejected as an applicant. How I loathe you, Edmonde! Even back in high school, the fool was thwarting my plans. Just look at your own record, Edmonde. Back in 9^th grade, Edmonde poured a bowl of shaving cream onto our teacher's desk and blamed me. Then he ran over the principal's dog and also blamed me; dispair. I was forced to walk the flattened dog for many a year, which is where I got my acquired taste for walking dogs. And I distinctly remember velvet.