Sunday, January 5, 2014

183. Homes

If you remember, one of C.W.’s firm decisions to do or not to do something for the coming year (new year’s resolutions) was to have his own thick piece of soft material used to reduce friction or jarring (pad, or home). I made the mistake of not nipping this idea in the bud and …

He came walking in a couple of days later carrying this huge set of plans and proceeded to unroll it on the kitchen table.

To say they were plans for a new home would be like saying that Gone With the Wind was a story about a little southern girl.

The roll laid flat must have been an inch thick. I walked over and looked. Oh my. What lay before me were plans for a monstrous building on several acres of land. A quick review indicated a structure of maybe 15,000 square feet.

“C.W.,” I said, “what is this?”

“My new home.”

“Your new home?”

“Nice, huh?”

“Your new home?”

“I’ll be the envy of the Galaxy.”

“You’ll be institutionalized,” I said. “This is monstrous.”

“As they say, just a little place to lay my head.”

I flipped a sheet. “And who all is going to live here?”

“Just me,” he said as if I had just asked why we need air to breath.

“In this thing?”

“Let me walk you through it,” he said, beginning to point out features. “See the five-car garage?”

“But you don’t have a car.”

“Not now,” he said, then he continued. “Here is the bedroom floor. Six bedrooms, each with its own bath. Of course the master bedroom is on the ground floor. This wing here.” He pointed to a room that measured 20 feet by 30 feet on the plans. “Right next to the ‘theater room’ so,” he blushed, “the effects of a romantic movie won’t be spoiled by having to climb stairs.”

“What’s this?” I said, pointing to a large room attached to the master bathroom.

“An office.”

“In the master bathroom?”

“One never knows,” he said. “when opportunity may call.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “Isn’t America a great place?”

I said, “And who would pay the utilities?”

“You would,” he said. “It’s part of the agreement.”

“And who will pay for building the thing?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “We’ll soon be able to afford this and more.”

“And how, exactly?”

He assumed a pedantic tone. “In case you haven’t noticed, it is rapidly becoming legal to grow cannabissativa in this country. We,” he stopped, “You, and Mrs. Big Dope have several hundred acres of prime farmland. Money will be no object once folks start lighting up.”

“Have you already started?”

He ignored me. “This plan can’t fail.”

“Oh yes it can.” I said.

“And just how?”

With great fortune comes great responsibility.
Success must be matched by good taste. - C.W.
I didn’t know where to start. “Well, for one thing, there are thousands of folks in our state that own more farmland than we. If only a portion of them move to pot as their main crop, oversupply will ruin the price.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said again.


“Farm subsidies,” he said.

I groaned.

“Who do you want to select as our contractor?” he said.

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