Number one priority on my list is to keep away as many people as possible from my awesome new pad. I have enough friends. Go away. So there you have it, just some of the many options I’ll be writing in my offer the next time I win a trillion dollars. You can have the nacho house.
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Not so much as a secret headquarters, but somewhere to keep all my bats. My wife is petrified of bats so the thought of having a cave full of the little shits to release upon her during any given argument is an option I’d like to have. She starts talking smack. I motion to the bat hatch button securely latched on to my belt. I win. Sex.
There’s nothing wrong with keeping your crime-fighting abilities on high alert. However, I would fuck around with this thing so much it would turn into an amusement park more than a training facility. I’d program it with all my favorite scenes from movies and thrust my obnoxious ass into all sorts of awesome situations. There’s me, shitting all over myself as the T-Rex attacks our tour car. Hey Quint, you need some help getting that shark off your nutsack? I’m going to build one of these.
Not only can it fondle my kids like in the picture above but it can get me beers, shave my head (back), fight off evil ninjas, and make my bed. As long as it’s not sassy like that bitch from ‘The Jetsons’. Why hasn’t anybody made a movie of The Jetsons? Because of that stupid bitch robot-maid. Probably.
Not so much for security reasons (we’ll get there) but for the slightest chance Emmanuelle Chriqui shows up and asks to use my shower. It’s less intrusive than peeping through a hole in the wall, which I would probably also do. It would also let me catch the little bastards that steal my socks and put holes in my underwear. And I can play Big Brother with all my (female) friends. This is getting weird.
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It just makes me giggle looking at it. How ridiculous do you have to be to have this put in your bedroom? And why would you ever leave when it got there? Those first couple nights might be rough though when you get up to go piss.
I would abuse the shit out of this place for sure. I’m pretty sure what qualifies as a panic attack for me isn’t listed in the handbook. Friends show up unannounced with a board game – panic room. Wife wants to talk about having another baby – panic room. It might as well just become my bedroom after a while.
It has to be the right one though. If I crack open the back of this bitch and see a shitload of snow and some sort of fucked-up goat-boy limping around I’ll seal it back up and put it on Craig’s List right away. I want a gateway to Woman Beach-Volleyball Land or the like. A place filled with sweaty Brazilian asses bouncing around in pairs. The animals can speak but they better not talk any shit. I will slap the piss out of a lion. And lots of nachos.
I don’t even bowl but I’m thinking my dad might visit more often. Who the hell bowls anymore? Stop it. It’s like curling, with way less skill involved. And curling is awful. Maybe I’ll get a curling rink too. Just a whole wing filled with the worst sports ever that I’ll never use. “Hey Jim, can I come over and use your indoor soccer field?” Shut up.
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I hate cutting the lawn with a passion. I would rather re-shingle my roof once a week than push that devil machine around my yard for two hours. Movie Dream House would have a fleet of green-thumbed freaks to do my dirty work. I’d have hedges that would re-enact the boulder scene from RAIDERS, flowers so gorgeous women’s panties would fly off and ring my doorbell as they walked by on the sidewalk. My grass would be so fucking green you could see it from space. And it would spell out “EAT A DICK”, because I am a complete asshole.