Going back through my old files, it occurs to me that I actually wrote some pretty darn hilarious things last year when I writing paragraphs containing vocabulary words for English. I've decided to treat you all to a glimpse of my bizarre mind, and also share with you some of the beautiful, singularly insane things I wrote last year, with which I probably made my English teacher doubt my sanity.
I've left in the underlined vocabulary words, just for fun.
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It was truly nothing but my own
serendipity that allowed
me to become the single wealthiest meat factory owner in the world.
When
I was but a young lad, I had always been thrown about by the
vicissitudes of
life. I was born the only son of Sir Henry Wakefield, the youngest
child in his family and by far the poorest. Whilst at home, I never
noticed our own misfortune, but it was soon made apparent to me when
the family gathered at Aunt Tilda's estate. My father and I would
make our appearance in the same tatty brown suits we had worn the past
year, while Uncle Ferdinand would come in a neat pressed waistcoat,
or Sally-Lou would be clutching a brand new child's doll made
entirely out of cashmere and embroidered with gold thread.
Furthermore, my father and I were constantly mocked by our more
fortunate family members. Uncles Ferdinand and Tobias would always
say, “So, Hank, how's the pig farming going?”, and capricious,
nasty Sally-Lou would always tell the other children to pinch their
noses when I came near, and would shout crude lies that I slept in
the same pen as the swine. The milieu
of my youth was mostly one of inadequacy and shame.
I
may have resigned myself to tragic fatalism
if not for Old Man Wilson. Old Man Wilson was the uncle of my second
cousin once removed, and he lived in a large house, deep in the
woods. Old Man Wilson was regarded by many to be crazy, but I thought
he was a savant.
He may have had a quirk
or two, such as perching on the backs of chairs like a crow, or
throwing the cat out of the upstairs window when frustrated, but
these minor flaws were nothing compared to his genius. Aided by no
one but Grey's Anatomy and thirteen dachshunds, he calculated the
terminal velocity of a small dog, single-handedly derived most of
single variable calculus, made his own formaldehyde, and perfected
the art of taxidermy. Many times, when Sally-Lou would begin her
cruel games, I would run to Old Man Wilson's and spend hours staring
into the torrid
flames of his taxidermy kiln, or hiding under tables when he went
into one of his many vagaries,
like smashing the piles of dog skulls with a ball peen hammer, or
training the dachshunds to act as an vicious attack squad. Sally-Lou
and the others would call me insane for spending time with him, but I
knew what was best for me, and I ignored their taunts and occasional
thrown rocks.
Despite
losing my left index finger to a cat-sized guillotine, becoming
friends with Old Man Wilson was certainly the crux
of my fortune, and the beginning of a steady streak of providence.
On the very day of my 18th
birthday, it was brought to my attention that Old Man Wilson had died
in a tragic accident. A badger, certainly not in the usual torpor
of winter, had found its way into the house. The dachshunds, of
course, quickly dispatched it, but, riled into a feral rage by the
sight of their eternal enemy, then turned on Old Man Wilson and
consumed him entirely.
I
was devastated, of course. I had lost my only childhood friend to
cruel fate and small, furry animals. However, despite my grief, his
death was actually a propitious
turn of events for my future. Shortly after I reported his death, his
estate manager informed me that he had left everything to me. Not
Aunt Tilda, not Uncle Ferdinand, not even the sickeningly cute
Sally-Lou. Me! I had never felt so appreciated. Furthermore,
'everything' of Old Man Wilson's did not merely include his dachshund
kiln and collection of South American tribal talismans.
As was revealed, Old Man Wilson had kept an entire fortune in his
bank account over the years, and all 5000 acres of his estate were
still his, and all of it was mine!
I nearly swooned upon hearing the news. Finally, I was at the same
level as all of my familial tormentors! I had opportunities. I had a
future, and it did not involve pig farming!
I immediately began planning my empire. I invested in factories and
workers, and began using Old Man Wilson's brilliant techniques to
become the single richest producer of quality meat-products and
adorable stuffed dachshund trinkets (which quickly became a fad among
the upper classes. It was rumored that even Queen Victoria owned one
of my stuffed dachshunds at one time). It wasn't long before my
business grew to astronomical heights, and I was reportedly the
single richest man in the nation.
Naturally,
my extended family was sick with envy, and so they held a family
meeting. Sitting at Aunt Tilda's table, they all demanded that I
share a fraction of my success with them. They were family, they
said, and so they deserved a share, if only for the sake of
bloodlines. They both cursed and pleaded like they were delivering
incantations,
but none could move me. They even threatened me with estrangement,
but I merely scoffed. Finally, when they had exhausted all of their
arguments, I plainly told them that it would be a simple matter for
me to have it brought to the attention of the government that they
had been actively avoiding paying taxes for years. The collective
sums owed could only be paid by complete repossession of every
belonging of theirs, and they would be left completely destitute. I
would pursue this action, too, unless they all agreed to work in my
processed meat factories at minimum wage for the rest of their lives.
When they realized the severity of my threat, they gladly
acquiesced.
Isn't it nice to be rich?
