Answers, Answers, Answers! Vol. 1

So, you're back. I knew you would be. Mr. Cargo, why did you go away? What have you been doing? Where did you go? WATER DISSOLVING, AND WATER REMOVED! THERE IS WATER AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN! How do I work this?

--Fictitia Figueroa
Fakeland, Fakevania, United States of Fakemerica

Beloved Fictitia,

Not the loudest citation of Talking Heads lyrics between here and the Great Salt Dunes of Arseland will make me talk, except to say that many sock drawers are now properly arranged and indexed to national specifications.

Mr. Cargo, many of us dream vigorously and non-stop about being insanely, filthy rich, and all the wacky, crazy things we would do, or not do, depending on what we do to continue feeding ourselves, defecating indoors and paying our silly bills.

My question to you, Mr. Cargo, is this: What would you do if you found yourself so endowed?

--Sue DeNymhh
Salt Fake City, Ufaketah USF

Ample-curved Sue,

Endowed, eh?! Whenever I think of the word "endowed" I without a doubt start thinking about wangs. Unfortunately for all of us, there's more to life than wangs. Speaking of things other than wangs: Your question! Were I to have unlimited (or semi-unlimited) funds, dare you inquire, I would do jack shit to begin with. Why?

Because I can! You know, it's funny, but what one could "do", presumably, could be something along the lines of years of non-idiotic financial decisions and/or one or two definitely idiotic but ultimately beneficial ones (Secret questionable bets by Braniff executives on a prized fighting cock named El Cabeza Loco de la Rodriguez Smith-Jones not being one), in which case it wouldn't so much be what one would do if one woke up after 20 years of investment and/or cash hoarding and deciding out of nowhere to go cash-mad, but what one would do if one came across some twisted windfall, like fathering Anna Nicole's baby, doing a few quick trades on the Black Tar Market or robbing ten banks. This seems to be the angle you're playing with your query.

*clears throat nervously*

What I meant to say was "what one would do in the event one wins the Powerball and/or encounters a wacky, suicidal multi-millionaire that uses a camera phone to stream, live to the Internet, himself pointing to one in a public square, screaming 'THIS UNKEMPT LARDASS GETS MY ENTIRE ESTATE!' and then shooting himself in the head."

Say that I am this man, this recipient of said Crackpot Jackpot(tm), and I could, at my option, give up my relatively mundane life as an accounting clerk and part-time editing monkey to wander the beautiful Earth as a career consumer, strutting around like I were hot shit under the sweltering Algerian sun while pointing and laughing uncontrollably (and undoubtedly condescendingly, as new money ought to) at people like, erm, myself.

The one thing I can think of off the top of my head (and this may change with a few nights' sleep on a 600-square-foot waterbed filled with Perrier-injected pearls) is this:

I would buy and fully restore a Yugo GV. I would go to fancy restaurants and start arguments with valet attendants (whose poorly paid buttocks have nonetheless grown accustomed to heated, retrofitted BMW seats made from the buttocks of Greek deities) and drop names like they were ticking.

One situation in particular (being that I will likely attend various hedonistic and/or extravagant shindigs with individuals of some status in the community) comes to my mind:

I pull up to an exclusive downtown eatery.

Me: "Don't scratch this, peasant. It was made in a country that no longer exists."

Valet: "Huh! Um, yeah. *snork* HEY, STARLA! COME LOOK A--Hold on, doucheba--er--sir--STARLA! CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!"

"Uh, 'Scuse me? I've got a baby seal and bay leaf smoothie waiting for me in the Hasselhoff Room, if you don't mind."

"STARLAAA! Haha! It's a LeCar!"

"Humph. Yugo GV, thank you very much. Renault? More like Re-NO WAY."

"Um, yeah, you've counted the change in the ashtray, right? It's safe with me, Mr. Uh... Dude."

"I will have you know that I am the Nicholas Cargo, famed recipient of the Denver Crackpot Jackpot(tm)! Traveler of the world! Meeter of movers and shakers! Seeker of hedonistic pleasures and hoarder of creature comforts on the backs of the working class! I ONCE WRESTLED IN PUDDING WITH THE ENTIRE CAST OF 'FERRIS BEULLER'S DAY OFF'!"

"...."

"YES, EVEN THAT GIRL THAT OFFERS THE PRINCIPAL THE GUMMI BEAR ON THE BUS! SHE'S MUCH OLDER NOW! SHE LOOKS KINDA LIKE DAWN FRENCH! AT LEAST SHE DID WHILE SHE WAS COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FROM WHAT I COULD TELL, GIVEN THAT I SPENT A GOOD DEAL OF TIME WITH MY FACE BURIED IN MATTHEW BRODERICK'S--"

"--Right, right, riiiiight. Nick Fargo. How could I forget--STARLA! CALL SECURITY!"

"You don't--*humph!*--I can not believe this. This is such bullshit. Here, let me play you this tape. Go get your supervisor. He or she can listen too, and then I will have you justly executed."

TAPE PLAYS YELLO'S OH YEAH IN THE BACKGROUND AS A VOICE DICTATES: 'Hi. I'm Matthew Broderick, known to some of you lesser beings as Ferris Beuller. You may not believe the story my, erm, disjointed pudding-related acquaintance is about to tell, and are denying him goods and/or services as a result, but anything he tells you about me and pudding is absolutely, positively true. Mr. Cargo is a good man. Mr. Cargo is a rich man. Mr. Cargo generously tips those that take his boorish tantrums in stride. Mr. Cargo donates to wildlife charities to help rebuild the populations of exotic, most likely endangered animals he eats on a daily basis like you eat cheeseburgers and Doritos. This is Matthew Broderick, signing off. Long live Nicholas Cargo!' CHIC! CHIGGA-CHIGGAAaaaa!

This is followed by about thirty seconds of astonished silence, after which I am dragged out of the car and beaten mercilessly by several individuals. Later, I'd go on to sue the establishment and all parties involved, including the zombie Divine and a man in a bear suit, whose legal name never appears on the court docket.

Their defense would be: "If he could really afford the smoothie, why couldn't he at least upgrade from a damn tape deck?"

IT WAS A SIX-CASSETTE CHANGER, FOR YOUR INFORMATION, AND THOSE AIN'T CHEAP!

I'd go on to have my eyes modified to shoot lasers and the teeth knocked out by the valet extracted from his sneakers to make replicas I would then have implanted back into my mouth. They would change color depending on my mood. The man in the bear suit would go on to be mauled to death by a bear in a man suit. The valet would go on to win the 2009 Valet Olympics in Athens, Georgia. Starla never left her booth, because she just didn't give a shit, so she remains without a documented future.

...Or else I'd just stay in and order a pizza.

With extra sausage. And some of that cheese bread. Without a coupon.

Ask Mr. Cargo!