Life at home is a life of leisure.  I write, of course, but I spend endless hours watching Saint Louie Squirrel on the balcony as he gorges himself on tomatoes he stole from Roberta’s garden.  The rascal is a master thief.  You can imagine how often I have yearned to meet Saint Louie face-to-face, but Roberta won’t allow it.  She worries he will steal my heart away.

When I’m not relaxing I do write.  Often I write under a nom de plume, because, if the schemers at the IRS get a clear on your identity, they love to tax you.  It’s maddening.  Our forefathers preached “No taxation without representation.”  Think of it.  Do I have a vote?  Kitties are treated in civics as if they were nullities; however, if a kitty earns any money, the IRS robbers want a cut.  So, I use various names.  My Krugerrand go to unnumbered accounts in lands of freedom like the Cayman Islands.  From time to time, I request photographs of my holdings.  Often I imagine myself sliding down a mountain of gold coins.  

Snarlson’s endorsements of my latest columns and magazine features sent my earnings into the stratosphere.  I had to be secretive about my holdings.  Quine and Chicago are nothing but two rats in kitty suits. They’d find about anything they knew I had to Bart and Fielding.  Those two, even though they love me, would beat any wealth I had out of me.  I always kept a few accounts I could turn over to them to make them think they had it all.  Frankly, they don’t count any better than I do.  And keep in mind that I have parietal damage.

When I am home, I try to let Roberta know she should think more about my grub.  When with Melania or Lucky, I eat the finest, freshest, well-prepared dishes.  In Webster Groves, I feed on Friskies and Nutro dry food, supplemented by whatever better victuals I can steal off Roberta’s plate.  You should have seen her the day I swiped a fresh-from-the-over pork tenderloin from her.  She had got it at Schwab’s, the best!  

Because it was to my advantage, I convinced myself that the Paedophile Bears called all the shots that mattered in Holland.  It was inevitable.  Beatrix was the leader from 1980 to 2013 when he “abdicated” (a fancy word for quit) to let her imbecile son Willem-Alexander (Just look at how he spelled “William” if you suspect him or his mum to be of ordinary intelligence).

Nothing could have flabbergasted me more than when he married one of my love slaves, Maxima Zorregulieta Cerruti.  It doesn’t take long walking around A-dam to figure out that the Monarchy had the country made over to a paedophile’s delight under the accursed, ever compliant Dutch Monarchy.  

The Dutch King tried to make himself look like a smartypant by having somebody ghost write a doctorandus on de Gaulle’s decision to leave NATO. Willem is about as likely to have written it himself as King George is to be the true author of the Declaration of Independence.  Don’t fall for that story about Thomas  Jefferson.  

Notice too that the Beatrix never did anything as energetic as runningto  off to Africa to live a debauched life with Elvis.  She claimed like all forms of sodomy too, but didn’t have the knees for it.  Before the King, she said, one must kneel and serve.  To that I say, “Bosh!”  She could have taken youthening drugs, but didn’t.  She was a lazy woman with no libido.  She’s no Constance and no Liz either.  Hence Elvis had to make do with native girls until sexy, swinging Liz arrived.

If you want to know, Liz is looking in her 20s and can’t keep her hands off Elvis’s youthened body.  Of course, Liz was always a closet nympho.  With Elvis, she can get down and dirty without Anglican shame.  When you’re rolling naked in the mood on the banks of the Zambezi river, the call of the wild is strong.   

Incidentally, English women have an undeserved reputation for propriety and chastity.  What nonsense.  If they had the chance, they’d all move to Mississippi to live in trailer parks and dream of living in perpetual nudity and filth as the youthened erstwhile queen does with Elvis in their hidden African mansions.

Perhaps it will come as no surprise that my stories were always popular with the Qanon crowd.  I owe my vast holdings to them, Munitions Galore, and Putin.  

In truth, my routine repetitions of what Putin and Wolverine wanted me to write led to general confusion about what happened in Somalia.  A great fog also dropped over who did and did not have Ice-10.  Some thought the Brits, Russians, Chinese, Americans, Germans, Japanese, Israelis and French had arsenals of Ice-10.  All this speculation was rubbish.  Anybody who knew Lord Caligula the likes of Wolverine or Peregrine would know Munitions Galore would sell its goods quietly to anybody and everybody with the ability to pay.  Binky Dalrymple, after all, had set up a network of shell companies to get as much Ice10 that needed a traceless transaction as can be imagined. 

 All of the principals were growing rich and everybody else was sinking into a conspiracy mindset.  I was collecting more and more Krugerrand as a result.  I’ve even begun to think I’d like to add a US Double Eagle to my collection.*  I’m not ever going to sell anything from my hoard of gold.  It’s too pleasurable to hold in my gaze or to run paws over.  Occasionally, I get a yen to climb on top of it all and obscenely posture whilst chanting “fuck communism”  or to howl with job, “I’m a rich banker.”  I know, I know, nobody’s perfect.  

* Since the most recently sold 1933 Double Eagle sold for over $18 millions, perhaps Crockett’s phantasies about his coins induced a gold madness.  Being gold mad is a known phenomenon, watch “Treasure of the Sierra Madre” to learn more.