One of the greatest benefits of being as disgustingly wealthy as I am is that money is never an issue. Want a yacht? Buy it. Want a new luxury SUV? Buy two. Want a woman? Buy as many as will fill your bed — comfortably or not. But that’s not the point.
The point is, I had bacon for breakfast. Fifty slices of bacon to be precise, each slice exactly 12 inches long before cooking. And every one of those hand-cut slices came from a different pig. The rest of those pigs? Tossed out with the garbage. My butler, Montgomery, had the temerity to object to this plan once he was done extracting the bacon.
“But sir!” he said. “I could make more of my delicious scrapple with the leftovers. Why waste the lot of them? Wot wot!”
“Montgomery,” I said, “when you’re as rich as I am, you never have to use the same pig twice. Run down to the butcher’s and buy some more pigs if you have the urge to make scrapple. Lord knows I won’t complain.”
“Very well, sir. Pip pip.”
“Oh, and Montgomery?”
“Yes, Master Carver?”
“If you ever question my orders again? You’ll find yourself curbside with the rest of the hour-old pigs.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to relax poolside with a pitcher of Bloody Marys and the April issue of Juggs Monthly. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.