Tonic, Paddles, & Women's Soccer

I chose to see writers like Alan Moore as missionaries who attempted to impose their own values and preconceptions on cultures they considered inferior—in this case, that of superheroes. Missionaries humiliate the natives by pointing out their gauche customs and colorfully frank traditional dress. They bullied defenseless fantasy characters into leather trench coats and nervous breakdowns and left formerly carefree fictional communities in a state of crushing self-doubt and dereliction.

Anthropologists on the other hand, surrendered themselves to foreign cultures. They weren’t afraid to go native or look foolish. They came and they departed with respect and in the interests of mutual understanding. Naturally, I wanted to be an anthropologist.

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be a good filthy-rich person. I’m pretty sure I’d forget where I came from and press my albino butler’s neck to the ground with my gold-plated slipper to make sure he sees the whale-blood sauce stain he missed. I don’t think I’d be too bad if I was just well off. A couple of million in the bank – I’d give to charities, take care of my family, open a bar…do stuff like that. But if we’re talking 100-million or billion-dollar rich, I’m pretty sure I’d be intolerable. I’d be a terrible, terrible person.

I would just do crazy stuff because I could. I’d fund time machines and hunt men and buy Oprah a car. I’d travel around town in a hot air balloon and blast Waka Flocka Flame and swoop down onto crowded intersections and randomly pick up hobos and give them food and drink and play the banjo for them. I’d teach a cat how to hang-glide and he’d love it. I’d create a circus where humans did tricks while animals watched. I’d pay the humans ridiculous amounts of money and humiliate them by having monkeys whip them.

I’d find people that were down on their luck and give them high five-figure salaries to do very specific jobs, like so-and-so would be my Orange Juice Ambassador; he’d go around the world finding the best glasses of Orange Juice and report back his findings to me. Someone else would be my bed warmer. I’d hire a cowboy to live on my property and ride his horse into the sunset every dawn, whether I’m there to see it or not.

I’d travel by submarine. If I need to go inland, to some fancy restaurant or something, my crew would consist of a Sherpa, Michael Rooker, a saxophone player, and four camels. We’d roll into the fanciest clubs in the world and turn down bottle service. We’d instead sip diet cokes by the bar, claiming we needed to keep our wits for the journey back. Except for Rooker. Rooker would get piss drunk every night. That’d be his job. He’d start fights with whoever I point to. I’d come in and pretend to break it up, challenge Rooker to a dance contest.

We’d do the Cabbage Patch, drop a smoke pill on the ground, and disappear.
I just wouldn’t be able to handle all of that money. I wouldn’t have to, tho, because I’d hire some guys at MIT to invent a robotic fanny pack that’ll handle it for me.