Mostly rambles, few brambles
You’re Putting in a Pool?
That’s great. That’s really good for you. For the level of things where you are at — which is assuredly not the level of things that I am at — a pool is an achievement, I suppose.
We had looked at pools, though, as a status symbol, they’re played out. I’ll show you the cyclotron catalog we’ve been browsing. They’re surprisingly affordable — I mean, not like pool-affordable, but you know. I’ll probably need to split it up over two credit cards. If it’s right in my massive backyard, though, I’m way more likely to use a particle accelerator.
Diving board, you say? Cute. Adorable really. Look at you, so concerned with other people’s enjoyment. Sort of like planting trees of which you might never enjoy the shade, or conducting your own hobbyist particle acceleration research so that maybe someday we can understand a little bit more of this crazy world. From one altruist to another, I must tip my cap to you, because, with your body type, I know you’re not jackknifing off that springy bitch. You strike me more as the t-shirt-on-while-ambling-slowly-around-four-feet-of-water, happy that liquid can take some strain off your legs, even as you eat another onion-dip sandwich.
— Please, please, no. Your muddled, middle-management voice is misquoting me. I said that my primary care physician merely implied that, if I wanted, I could live forever.
We do hope you enjoy your “pool-warming party” — are you married to that name? It’s fine, I mean, we won’t be there. We’ll be vacationing on Butler Island then. That’s the one, yeah, the one National Geographic ripped as the “Deplorable Result of Global Capitalism.” Yep, we read the same article and knew we had to go! This whole cyclotron ordeal, frankly, has me so twisted that I need a few glamour enemas and a tourist’s baptism in the Mecca of servitude. I want to let a steward chew my foie gras for me while I sit by a pool. But, sorry, not your pool; I want their, better, pool. And definitely not your onion-dippy mouth.
Sorry, that was only mostly intended to be a knock on your gross mouth. Chewing is just better when left to a professional with fifty-five teeth. And, this resort is like, way, better than your dumpy three-thousand-square-foot place. Your house is cute in a classic, Americana sense — I could picture it in an oil painting, one of those mid-century Norman Rockwell numbers seeking to highlight beauty in the unremarkable. As if to say, “no one was looking at my house, since it looks like every other house, so I commissioned a painting.” Not for me. Sure, my cyclotron will be chrome plated and will look as if a space station gently set itself down in my yard. I won’t need a painting for it to be admired. Folks will zeppelin by and they’ll say, “Children, if you work really hard and inherit what would amount to the GDP equivalent of a midsized nation, you too can solve the mysteries of the universe in your own backyard.”
Enjoy your low-impact wading and caloric peasant dip, I guess.
And, apologies, I don’t mean to be “that guy.” I, rightly, consider myself a humanitarian and will definitely-probably share my particle physics findings with the rest of the world, but — and I don’t want to involve Security — this area here, this club-level pool and lounge, is actually only for Gold-Status Members. Sorry!