I insist! “Mister” is too formal. Preference: “Baal: the God of Hellfire.”
Yearn to live the good life, all proper and tame, now walk on your heels when you address me, boys, this is no game.
Showering not allowed; instead, a leisurely bath of lukewarm ass’s milk.
Hand-wash my solid-oak armoire. With your tongue.
Steal those chicken eggs we talked about. Hatch beneath headmaster’s pillow… raise as pets, friends.
Do not ask. Rather, scat.
Memorize daily wise facts. Today’s: Filling body-cavities with sour cream is somewhat rash, yet also deliciously cheeky.
Another wise fact: Oh, it is true, I am a wonderful man, bound to eventually discover the Theory of All.
Tentative Theory of All: A heaping bowl of bubble and squeak, with a splash of mustard. Thank you, this is so yummy.
Quickly: Pull your right leg across your body and pretend to pick an air-guitar to “Baby I’m A-Want You.”
You’ve forgotten that tasty guitar-lick. Slo jam it again.
Now caress the birthmark on my arm shaped like a potato.
You bounder! You’re incorrigible!
When nobody’s looking, pretend that you’re a badass cowboy.
Shyly dance the hornpipe.
Avoid my cross-eyed gaze until you are physically unable.
Must I repeat? I apologize, for my throat is sore. Avoid my cross-eyed gaze until you are physically unable.
What’s that? Not in the mood? Very well then… bend over and grab your ankles: Mandatory branding of two monkeys playing hopscotch.
This is important: With your body heat, toast my crumpets just so.
And then for old time’s sake:
Rationalize my future career stagnation (gently).
Meanwhile: Those chickens are now my friends and yours, too. Make your way out into the world, but please do so at your own leisure. Truth be told, your ferocious strength frightens me, as does your never-ending capacity for incredible violence against those who urinate in fear.