Mr. Wrinkles had recently decided to turn his sprawling hacienda into the new home of the Special Genital Olympics. Finally there was a safe open space for those with bizarrely large penises to perform the Dick Joust, which is the precise reason I decided to co-chair the event.
“Dad, I don’t know why you’re overreacting…so what if I charged a hundred haciendas to your credit card? At least now you have something to leave us in your will! And we can start that pickle farm you’ve always dreamed of. I was drunk and I thought I was ordering a hundred hyacinths for Mr. Wiggles! It’s your fault for not making me do my Words of the Day sentences every morning…I mean, they basically sound the same, don’t you think? One day, in precisely 70 years, we’ll all laugh at this, you’ll see. What’s that? What’s disowning?”
“To be precise, it’s an hacienda.” Bruce flipped back his frosted blond hair as he corrected Mildred who’d asked where his house was. She muttered under her breath, “I’d like to show your ass-the-enda my foot giving it the worst kicking of its life you stinky swine!” but said aloud, “ah, yes, how lovely.”