All image credits: Mercedes-Benz
Photo: Mercedes-Benz

It’s officially summer and I’m told that the commonfolk start bellyaching for something called a “vacation” during these warm months. I suppose it’s something of a break from the “work” they do to “earn” money and pay their “bills.” But what the hell, I decided to try out this vacation to see what all the fuss is about.

No, I didn’t go on one of those all-inclusive cruise things, what a goddamn nightmare. Trapped on a boat you don’t even own with all the other cattle. No, I went on a thing called a “picnic,” which is a concept that was initially puzzling. Why would one go through all the effort to eat outside when a there is a perfectly nice five-course meal served by a professional chef inside?

But once you dispatch the servants to set everything up and show up at your leisure an hour later in a chauffeured G-Wagen, then it’s really quite nice.

Don’t worry, I didn’t go alone. This is an actor I hired to accompany me because none of my friends could grasp the eating on the ground thing. Sad. And by “hired,” I mean that I promised to release his family unharmed if he smiled at the camera for an afternoon.


“Don’t cry,” I hissed right before this close-up was taken. “If I even see a hint of a tear... And make sure your watch is showing.” That part was important.

We posed together while looking off into the distance. I daydreamed of a world where it was legal to land private jets on public roadways and serenely filed my nails.


I had donned a deep pink polo; his was blue. Darker colors for darker souls. Also, they force the help to separate the laundry. Can’t make life too easy for them.

The meal the servants had packed was just divine. There was no food, per my instructions, but more substances medicinal in nature. Food is for poor people, I’d given it up years ago and I encourage you to do the same. I’m mostly on a liquid diet these days: Gin, wine, the tears of the dwindling middle class. Only the best for me.


The servants dug this bottle of red out from the cellar for this special occasion. It was bottled when Elvis was still alive and it’s outlived The King himself. I poured some for the dogs. They lapped it up.

One servant winced. I fired him on the spot and made him walk home. Haha! Joke’s on him, he’s from the mainland and we’re on my island! Picnics are fun!


“This is a nice blanket,” the actor remarked as we lounged beneath some shade created by a human pyramid of help, holding some palm fronds.

“Thank you,” I said. “Now get off of it, I need more room for me.”


Later on, after the dogs had finished the first bottle of wine, I offered some to the actor. “Oh, no,” he said, “I don’t drink.”

“That’s bullshit!” I declared merrily, upending the bottle into the IV bag connected to his arm. “Everybody drinks!”


Too soon, though, it was time to leave. Alas, all good things really do come to an end. I was sorry to be ending my picnic. But I did learn a valuable lesson: People need breaks. People need vacations. People like me.

I gathered the last of my thoughts and stuffed them into my handbag, which I then tossed into the passenger seat.


“I’m driving,” I snapped at the help, locking the doors.

“What am I supposed to do?” the actor asked, gazing at the long, dusty road back with distaste. And fear.

“Walk,” I responded, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Vacation’s over. Get back to work.”