I don't like to go outside too much. It's hot and sticky, or cold and wet, and neither one appeals to me. The sun makes my vampire senses tingle and I begin to burn. I am a burning vampire, I adamantly refuse to sparkle. Therefore, I pay to have my enormous lawn mowed every summer. However, my lawnmower-girl decided she needed a college education and left me. I do have children, but parents are no longer allowed to boss their kids around and make them do chores. As a result, I ended up mowing the lawn the other day. I can only assume that the following conversation I had in my head was due to too much sun exposure.
I picture John Cleese and Susan Sullivan at breakfast having this conversation:
Rich People Having Breakfast
(This was all done in a British accent in my head, if you would care to read it that way.)
“Jefferey, the lawn needs mowing again, I can see those little yellow flowers.”
“Oh Tabby, don't we have a servant we beat for that” Ha ha!
“Jefferey, you can't say you beat the servants now, it isn't done”.
“It was only in jest darling. We have those riding crops, and... well you know...”
“Yes, but you can't joke about that now, Jeffery.”
“How odd. Well, we pay someone to take care of that don't we?”
“I don't think we can joke about that either.”
“I wasn't joking, Tabby, I really think we do.”
“I meant about paying them. I don't think we can joke about that.”
“But we do pay them. I'm sure of it. We give them money.”
“Yes, but darling, surely that isn't paying them. From what I understand they are given, there is no way one can live on that. I think they are simply people who enjoy the outdoors and make sport of taking our money when they would be outside anyhow. It's some sort of odd game, I'm certain.”
“Should we continue it?”
“Everyone does, and I really don't see any harm in it. Just leave it alone Jeffery.”
“By all means darling.”
A long pause ensues wherein you only hear the tink of a fork lightly touching china and the shake of Jeffery's newspaper. He's reading the financial section. He has no idea what he's looking at.
A huge Golden Retriever comes wandering into the room.
“Hello, Goldie, say hello to mummy!”
“Jeffery, please don't address the dog to me.”
“Dear, Goldie's neckerchief is very centered on her neck. I prefer it at an askew angle. Makes her look jaunty. It says 'I'm fun', don't you think?”
“The groomer handles that Jeffery.”
“Will you ask the groomer to make her neckerchief more jaunty in the future then?”
“Yes dear, I'll see to it.”
The dog lays down in a corner and goes to sleep.
“Dear, the chocolate man who runs the country says he is fixing a recession or something.”
“Jeffery, don't call them chocolate.”
“Why not, that is precisely the color he is. He looks exactly like one of those chocolates I've seen you set out when your mother comes to visit.”
“Yes, but you cannot call him chocolate. He'll find it offensive.”
“Do you know they don't taste of chocolate?”
“The chocolate people.”
A long silence ensues.
“Why what darling?”
“Jeffery, why would you know what anyone tastes like?”
“Well, when I was a small boy, I had a nurse. She was chocolate. Only, I licked her once and she didn't taste of chocolate at all. Come to think of it, she tasted a bit like soap. I always liked the taste of soap.”
“Do you eat the soap?”
“No, of course not darling, but occasionally it will get into one's mouth, in the shower perhaps, and you know, I don't find it an unpleasant experience.”
“Please don't mention being in the shower at the breakfast table.”
“So sorry dear.”
Tabby rolls her eyes.
“Do we know any, dear?”
“Know any what, Jeffery?”
“Jeffery, no we don't, but I'm sure we have friends that do. And you must stop calling them chocolate!”
“What do you call them to distinguish them from ourselves?”
“You call them African-Americans.”
“Oh! That's good then. African-Americans. Sounds exotic, don't you think?”
While Jeffery rolls this term around on his tongue like wine, Tabby samples her egg, finds it runny and sets the plate aside.
“What if the African-American chocolate person, lived in say, Brazil? Had always lived in Brazil and had never lived anywhere else. Now, say we, living in America, must refer to this person without the benefit of having a name for him. Would we still call him an African-American? Or would we refer to him as an African-Brazilian? Or perhaps an African-American-Brazilian? And if he had say, a Chinese mother, but still looked chocolate, then how would one address the problem? I don't see any easy solution to that quandary at all. It would seem so confusing to me that by the time I had finished working out the problem, I would have forgotten what the problem was all together and then would be at great pains to go back through my thought process to find what the original question had been. I can see it taking up a vast quantity of my day in fact. And I know if I were in any danger of bringing the question and the answer close together in my head, that danger would no doubt be averted by some relative dropping by or one of my associates calling for some absurd reason, and then all of my time and effort would have been for nothing. Nothing, dear.”
“Please go away.”
And that my friends, is my brain. We both apologize.