A woman in northern California won $2 million from a scratch-off lottery ticket the other day and is giving almost all of it to her goats (check out the story here). This inspiring, selfless act got me thinking about what I would do if I won the lottery.
First, I would take a cue from this California woman and try to do something charitable. Since I am unfamiliar with charities, I would probably research it for 15 minutes, get really bored, and then end up sending $10 to one of the Goat Lady’s goats.
Then, with the charity crap out of the way, I could focus my attention on more important stuff: making the most expensive sandwich ever assembled. I would hire a team of NASA engineers to design it for me and would require that it includes a stack of hundred dollar bills and some chocolate sauce. I can’t imagine that the bills will taste very good, but it will be worth it just to prove to everyone how rich I am.
I will have the NASA engineers assemble the sandwich in Hawaii. From there, it will be delivered to me via a solid gold rocket ship flown by a specially trained monkey. This probably means that the sandwich won’t be super fresh, but, again, it’s probably worth it to prove to everyone that I am very rich.
When the sandwich arrives, I will require that it be served to me on Mickey Mantle and Honus Wagner baseball cards that have been glued together and cut into the shape of a plate. And I will refuse to eat it if it isn’t served to me by two ex-presidents wearing the original, shoot-worn C-3PO and Chewbacca costumes (I don’t care which ex-presidents — beggars can’t be choosers).
Finally, a sandwich like this will almost certainly invoke an immediate need for excretion. Thus, I will quickly adjourn to the bathroom, where I will sit down on a diamond-ruby toilet with a mammoth-tusk flush handle and a seat cover constructed from an original Picasso. It has become way too cliche for a rich guy to wipe his butt with hundred dollar bills; rather, I will have my buttler (which I will spell with two “T”s) wipe my butt with hundred dollar bills for me while he sings to me (I will only hire accomplished tenors as buttlers). I’m not a big fan of opera, and I imagine that neither the diamond-ruby toilet nor the hundred dollar bills will feel very good against my tush, but it will be worth it just to prove to everyone how rich I am.
At that point, I estimate that I will be completely out of money. Already hungry for my next meal, I’m sure that I’ll turn to my friends for some cash.
And when all my friends refuse to lend me money, I will call up the goat to see if I can borrow back that $10 I sent him. The goat will refuse, and I will die of starvation.
I hope I don’t win the lottery.
It’s been said that there is no greater pain than having your heart broken.
I bet that getting hit in the balls with a sledgehammer while someone paper-cuts your eyeball is right up there, though.
There is nothing more painful than a fart that refuses to come out. And the pain isn’t just physical; it’s emotional.
As a lover of flatulence, I liken it to a rebellious teenage son. You devote so much of your life, so much of your time, and so much of your love to him, and, yet, he continually causes you pain.
At some point, he may even hurt you enough that you question your unconditional love for him. But deep inside you, even the places that hurt worst know that the love remains, so you persevere.
Perseverance can be difficult, especially during those bleakest times, but it is almost always rewarded. For one day, he will recognize the error of his ways and realize, with full appreciation, how much love he has been shown.
And on that day, joy will shoot out of your butthole.
I was having trouble coming up with a blog post when this ocurred to me: Writer’s block is like constipation of the brain. Sometimes it’s impossible to squeeze something out, no matter how hard you push.
Fear not, World; I’ll down a spoonful of Mental Metamucil so that I can continue pooping inspiration on you.
Tomorrow, I present another Tubesteak Challenge.
Someone at work quoted Aristotle yesterday: “We are what we repeatedly do.”
I believe that makes me primarily a mixture of pee and fart.
