Dear Reader, please forgive my lack of vigilance and conscientiousness in updating this online diary of late. If only I might offer you some worthwhile excuse (viz. I had been scooped up, adopted, by Danish royalty and reared according to my new station! Or, perhaps, a surprise trip to the world's finest gastronomical locales!), but no, I have nothing of the sort with which to regale you. In fact, if it is at all possible, these past several weeks have been the lowest point in my not inconsiderable experience. To wit, I must report that the Dominguez Clan has officially fallen on hard times. O, the indignity!
At the very least, I'm buoyed by the fact that we do not reside in Olden Times, during which Gene, the pater familias, might well have been hauled away to a debtors prison, leaving Debra and young Raoul to fend for themselves without the means nor wherewithal (let us speak candidly - Debra does not possess the necessary faculties to provide for herself, let alone a small child, even one as astute as myself).
But the simple good fortune that we now live in an age devoid of debtors prisons does nothing to assuage our growing concern that we may yet end up destitute, perhaps living in a weekly hotel or worse -- in the Aerostar!
As mentioned in a previous missive, Debra has placed me on a weight-reduction regimen. I initially harbored hope that, given my own steadfast resolve, I might weather this storm and once again find myself eating the sweet ambrosia of KFC boneless chicken strips in between freshly-baked Poptarts. But no! This dietary regimen was not, in fact, designed as a course of reduction for yours truly, but rather it was a fiscal necessity! With Gene's unemployment benefits waning, Debra had been forced to economize. And who do you think became the first victim of this economic downturn? Why, of course! The little folks, i.e. Raoul, i.e. Me.
Isn't this always the case? Main Street suffers, while Wall Street (i.e. Debra and Gene, still living high on the hog, no doubt, as is evidenced by Gene's ever-increasing daily intake of fortified wines!) knocks on the government's door, hat in hand, looking for a handout! A handout! My indignation knows no bounds!
How dare one ask for a handout when this mess is of one's own design? Was it not Gene who was so unceremoniously let go from his position at the Wal-Mart? Not I, Dear Reader! Not I! While I diligently labored to provide this man with a happy homestead (was all my feigned laughter for naught?) and endeavoured to remain healthy so as to carry on the good Dominguez name, he has brought this shame home to roost, as it were. Perhaps I shall die of hunger before my gonads reach the requisite maturity and I'm able to sire an offspring of my own! Perhaps, for want of gravy and mash, I shall be consumed by the malefic ills of hunger and deprivation!
But please, do not for a moment think that I have been corrupted by self-pity! That road is one which is far too oft taken by lesser men. I shall not succumb.
In fact, I shall wear this deprivation proudly on my sleeve as a badge of honor. And if I should happen to fall, to perish before the prime of life, I shall have been a martyr to this sluggish economy! A martyr in the fight against incompetence! And from beyond the grave I shall decry government intervention! Handouts? Bah! What happened to those days when men pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps? By sheer dint of spirit!
Perhaps, however, going hungry involuntarily is not the answer! Perhaps I shall stage a hunger strike! We'll see how Debra likes that!
I shall join the ranks of Mahatma Ghandi! Long shall we live in glory! I will yet best this foe, the "economy!"
In the meantime, however, notice that Debra has once again forced me to wear this asinine ensemble! Her taste for irony is not going unnoticed, I can assure you of that. I can already imagine the mise-en-scene when Gene returns from the tavern and sees his firstborn son dressed against his will as a ridiculous turkey, while all that sits on our own table is a godawful concoction of Ramen, empty pie crusts, canned beans, and ketchup.
Damn this holiday. Damn this economy. Damn, damn, damn!
My hunger strike shall commence tomorrow forthwith!
