I had a dream last night that I had a pet giant tortoise named Otto. He was 212 years old and weighed 150 pounds.
It turns out that if you rub Otto’s shell, you get super powers. I had no particular desire to be a superhero, but I figured there must be a lot of people out there who had designs on superheroism, and who was I to stand in their way?
So I got in touch with some marketing professionals and made a two-minute late-night TV commercial.
“BILLY MAYS HERE FOR OTTO THE GIANT TURTLE!”
“Billy,” I said, “technically, he’s a tortoise.”
“NOBODY WHO BUYS SHIT FROM ME KNOWS WHAT THE FUCK A TORTOISE IS, NUMBNUTS!”
You can’t argue with merchandizing logic like that. So the commercial aired on a few low-powered UHF stations in nine lower mid-size markets in the slightly eastern midwest.
The next day, people were beating my front door down for a chance to rub Otto’s shell for just one easy payment of $49,999.97. And so I was raking in the cash. And Otto happily sat there eating his cucumbers, while customer after customer rubbed his shell and gained superpowers.
In my haste to get rich quick, however, I had never considered the consequences of my actions. A large number of my customers had used their newfound abilities to become supervillains. What have I done?!
Otto told me not to worry. As it turned out, his girlfriend, Ophelia, also had a magic shell, except hers took super powers away. So I immediately embarked on a journey to the Galapagos to locate and capture Ophelia.
But I was thwarted in my efforts by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, who it turns out is also secretly the Queen of the Magic Turtles.
Naturally, this caused quite the uproar in Parliament, at which point a giraffe started eating Tony Blair’s toupee. Also, my 7th grade math teacher is apparently a life peer.
Somewhere around this point I had to get up and take a leak. So the fates of Otto, Ophelia, Her Madge and my newly created legion of superheroes and supervillains may never be known.
Until, perhaps, some time tonight.
