The Billionaire Could've Been Anything

It's been a lazy Sunday afternoon. The billionaire's been hanging out at my place. He's usually a fireball of activity, but like everyone he has to cool his jets sometime.

This is what I like. It's what I liked when I was with the Pink Professor, doing nothing in particular, just hanging out like two old slippers. Small talk. Comfortable body language. I looked over at the billionaire, wondering what his dreams must be like. I hope they're not all of exploits and conquests, the next gold-laden rainbow, etc. As much as I like the billions, I'm still a romantic at heart, and like to slow down.

Anyway, there he sat -- the man himself -- a guy with the world on a chain. Even without the billions he'd be a great guy. I can picture him a total success no matter what. Having him asleep gave me time to think over the possibilities.

How about a dashing cowboy hero? Of course he wouldn't be from this generation. We have cowboys, but there's very little call for them to round up rustlers or head off bank robbers at the pass. In which case we would've never met. But he could've been in the Old West. He has his feet on the table at the saloon, dozing off. There's a guy there saying, "Even if he weren't a dashing cowboy hero, he would've been a success at something. Like if he lived in the far-off future, an important mogul in the world of high finance. I'm picturing him as an eccentric billionaire." Then the future goes fuzzy, our cowboy hero wakes up, tips a glass of whiskey, and takes off to protect water rights for the settlers.

Or he could've been a great talent in the arts. Since to be a truly great artist you have to let yourself go, and not be afraid to face the scorn. As for me, I've never let myself go in the arts, so I haven't painted any masterpieces. I've had a blank canvas for the last five year and I'm afraid to touch it with paint. The billionaire might've been born in France, like the guy in the illustration obviously was. He has that look of French insouciance. He's there in France, doing art, with many fans. One fan wonders, "If he weren't such a great artist, I wonder what he might've been. He's too eccentric to ever be wealthy. He'd waste his money in a second and be found drunk or dead in his garret. As it is, he needs a keeper! He'll get knifed in a bar yet!"

I can also see the billionaire as a brave soldier in battle. Brave in the extreme, because he has very little reserve; if he wants something he goes for it. His wealth proves that. It's no stretch to imagine him as instrumental to a major battlefield rescue. The commander says we need someone to run through that minefield and carry out our fallen battalion. He can't do it alone, so he goes to a farmhouse and barters for several stallions. Which he lashes together side by side, then he steps on the middle horse and drives them into the fray. The battalion sees him coming, and they're ecstatic, shouting their admiration like, "That crazy son of a bitch! I never seen such a beautiful bastard!" Even the enemy's beside themselves. Meanwhile, back at the farmhouse, the farmer's telling his wife the story: "That guy could've been anything, dammit, I'm tellin' ya! A cowboy! An artist! In the future, a billionaire!"

Finally, the billionaire could've been an average man of any little town. I have my doubts here, but there's no telling. My dad was an average man in a little town, and he was extraordinary in various ways. He met my mom, and believe me, other guys didn't! So who's smartest? Obviously, my dad. But the thing about the billionaire is, What would he have done as an average man of a town? Even he might not know. He would've paused, thinking, and really going over it: "Is there a place for me in the arts? Or perhaps the military? Anything would be better than this trash route! But it pays the bills, and people like me. They honor me each time as one of the nicest guys they know. And that's success as well.

I was about to go on ... forever ... when the billionaire woke up. Being a genius, he saw I had something on my mind, and goes, "What'd I miss?"

Help The Parotid Kid Beat Parotitis

Hey, all you buckaroos! You all know I'm in a very big battle, to knock out and beat parotitis! And I'm askin' once again for everyone's help, all the help I can get, with parotitis coming in like it does, rustlin' and puttin' its brand on a lot of jaws.

I took up the fight a long time ago, when one side of my dear old Ma's face swelled up big as a steer's head. I said, "What's the matter with your face, Ma?", and she said one word I'll never forget: "Parotitis!" The old doc told her, "Yep, ma'am, that's what you got!"

And she stayed like that, tryin' her best to break the thing's grip, but she just couldn't. So before we knew it, she wasn't chewin', swallowin', or even talkin' quite right. She could only make a few bare little peeps, just enough for us to know she was restless and needed put back in her bunk. And that's where she kicked the bucket, with her boots on, and her face all puffed up big as a barn.

When you see somethin' like that, and it gets your own mother -- as good a ma as I'm ever likely to know -- it sticks with you. My ma was special, but she didn't do anything special to come down with parotitis. All she did was get up one day and start complainin' of some little puffy spot under her jaw. Then it got bigger and bigger, and before we knew it, it was full grown and all spread out!

The old doc said this was a problem in somethin' called the parotid gland, with there being one on each side of the face. He said somethin' about them being "found wrapped around the mandibular ramus," and that they "secrete saliva through Stensen's ducts into the oral cavity, to facilitate mastication and swallowing and to begin the digestion of starches." Wee doggies, it was all I could do to follow the old boy! A lot of 50 cent words there!

Well, it turns out -- and wouldn't you guess? -- things can go wrong with these glands, and they sure did with ma! You might've heard about, or even had, the mumps? That's the most likely cause of parotitis. But they vaccinate for mumps, so there's not so much of that anymore. But other random bacteria, varmints you can't see and don't expect, can also crawl in there, like a dog maybe to die, but they find a decent home and start eatin' away. Then they start breedin', and pretty soon you've got a whole herd of bacteria stampeding under there and no place to go! And next thing, that's a tumor!

Now, you're sayin', we can cut out a tumor! Well, yes and no. Because there's somethin' called "the facial nerve parotid lodge," and that's where you'll see a lot of the gang holed up. A lot of the gang. But if you don't get the whole blamed bunch, and leave behind even a few stragglers, maybe watchin' out in the hills, the whole bunch can just come back! And madder than hornets! So these varmints, you gotta catch 'em early!

Well, you know The Parotid Kid's in the fight, that's for sure! But I need a bunch more pardners to lend me a hand. So how about you? If I can get you and you and you and you to help out, and let everyone know about one tough hombre, called parotitis, maybe we can get 'em all corralled and wipe out the whole blamed gang, once and for all!

The Horse Wildfire

His father was the lightning,
His mother was the weeds,
This horse is made of fire,
The fieriest of steeds.
He came across the prairie
In the greatest cloud of smoke,
Fire like this in horses
Is nothing you can stoke.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on blazing!
WILDFIRE -- He's really one hot horse.


He started out a little flame,
But then the years passed by,
And what was only little once
Had now flamed up so high.
And so the prairie felt him
A'charging o'er the plains,
And not a thing could stop him,
Not the wind and not the rains.

WILDFIRE!
Lights the night!
WILDFIRE -- A horse without a match.


The enemy of outlaws,
He watches where they turn,
And then he flares up at them
And whinnies as they burn.
Their camp will be no refuge,
No water's in the well,
There's nothing that can douse him,
He sends them straight to hell.

WILDFIRE!
Whinnying at them!
WILDFIRE -- His flames will save this land.


His coat is a fiery furnace,
His mane's a living hell.
A marshmallow 40 miles away
Would heat and start to swell.
The children at that distance
May go out pale and wan,
But when their mother calls them in,
They look like Al Jolson.

WILDFIRE!
Can't approach him!
WILDFIRE -- He's lighting up the sky!


And so, my friends, we honor him,
This horse without a peer.
We hail him from afar of course
Because we can't go near.
His fiery coat is burning,
There's brimstone on his breath,
To shake his hoof or brush him,
Would mean our certain death.

WILDFIRE!
Keep on smokin'!
WILDFIRE -- He's burning evermore!