Strangely Naked

The entire Disney staff wishes you, dear reader, a magical stay at this mysterious, mystical, mythic, magnificent and majestic blog during your time here. Please don’t litter.

If you’re confused, I just sold this blog to Disney for a HEFTY sum. As a little bit of a background, Disney has been buying every major intellectual property with any sort of profit potential for an obscene amount of money. Rather than wait until this blog showed any sort of glimmer of hope to maybe even earn enough to cover the cost of stupidly buying this silly domain, I proactively sought to sell my future potential to Disney like a fledgling app development company.

So, I first approached Dewey Duck, some people told me that was just a guy in a costume, but I could tell it was a an actual sailor duck with a predilection for going bottomless. Dewey introduced me to his uncle, Scrooge McDuck, who turned me down and passed me off to his assistant, Darkwing Duck (there have been some personnel changes since the early 90’s), who managed to get me a sit-down with Balu the Bear, who transferred me to Chip and Dale’s adopted baby chipmunk (of course they’re a couple).

Chale (the adopted baby chipmunk) gave me a phone number to the racist caricature crows from Dumbo, but it turned out that number was fake, but that chipmunk was pretty dumb and only changed the last number in the phone number and so I tried until I got the racist crows, who transferred me to Robert Downey Jr., who swore me to secrecy…so then, with that vow of secrecy in mind, as a coincidence, I traded a trash bag full of unspecified narcotics to “Flobert Mowney the Second” a complete stranger who is definitely not famous or connected to the Iron Man franchise, for the contact info of Guy Ritchie who, through the Director’s Underground Orgy Party (DUOP, pronounced “dew-wop”) put me in touch with JJ Abrams.

Then I realized JJ Abrams isn’t associated with Marvel or Disney and did something unspeakable to get the number of George Lucas. George demanded I sew him a minimum of two-dozen new flannel shirts complete with connecting chin beards along with multiple, multiple-chin massages. All of that to introduce me to Brer Rabbit from The Song of the South. While I was horrified at first–even after working with the racist caricature crows from Dumbo, which I kind of hope will show up in the Tim Burton live-action remake–Brer Rabbit knows all of the secrets Disney tries to hide in the shadows. And Brer (I call him B-Rab, because we got real friendly) arranged a sit-down with me and Walt Disney’s semi-frozen head.

Meeting Disney’s head is how I got my sweetheart deal. Did I have to smile and nod while Walt’s frozen head spouted anti-Semitic nonsense and demanded filter-less cigarettes and ignoring that it wasn’t Walt speaking but Bob Iger using the head like a puppet? I signed a non-disclosure agreement that dictates I answer that with, “I dunno.” (Picture that coupled with a shoulder shrug and lackadaisical eyebrow movements.)

The process aside, let me be honest, being a part of the benevolent Disney juggernaut is quite satisfying. Yes, there was a ceremony where I was photographed in compromising positions with an obviously drugged Bugs Bunny and the current sitting President of the U.S. (not a political statement), but that’s just to ensure my loyalty and to remind me of the position of all things non-Disney.

This is amazing, not just for my massive financial windfall that will allow me to be the eccentric weird-o I’ve always dreamed of–I now own the Great Pacific Garbage Patch which I would like to rebrand as the Pacific Ocean Plastic Island Resort and I have a phalanx of drones that are connected to a hammock so that I can have the most comfortable “flying car/flying recliner” in existence, floating above the traffic in my drone-powered hammock as I nap to-and-from work (and sometimes at lunch..most of the times at lunch)–but also because I’m part of an important cultural institution, neigh, a movement.

Hold on…I just got a text.

NOOOOOOOOooooOOooOOOooooooo! Turns out that when you sign a non-disclosure agreement, you’re supposed to actually follow those very reasonable requests. I done goofed. Well, at least I have my drone hammock.