Wouldn’t it be amazing if I could have me some minions? A few loyal servants that would make it their life’s ambition to be my beck and call. And they don’t even have to be yellow and cute. The problem is that my kids have reached an age where they give me attitude when I tell them to run me a bath, take out the trash or rub my feet. What? Why else do we them?
I have accepted reality so I only take showers, Wife takes out the trash as pennant for sleeping with the Boss and I’ve trained our dog to lick my feet. I’m pretty good at delegating. Unfortunately there are still things I have to do myself like chewing. But if I had minions, what an idyllic life that would be? And I wouldn’t call them Bob, Stuart or Kevin. They’ll have sophisticated names like Farty, One-eye and Are-you-happy-to-see-me?
I’ve even got a list of things they could do:
- IF I win the battle for supremacy of the TV (which doesn’t happen often, as I have to fend off Disney Channel and soap operas), they should hand me the remote. For the frigging thing will be out of arms reach, lying on the coffee table, where it is NOT suppose to be.
- They should pick up my clothes thereby limiting the size of the pile. The Wife blatantly refuse to do this over a weekend. And here I was thinking she loves me.
- They should bring me a beer or a refill of the wine so I don’t have to get up in the middle of a game or an interval to do it myself.
- They should carry me to bed on those rare occasions when I fall asleep in front of the television. Nothing sucks as much as getting up from a semi-comatose state and having to climb stairs. It remains a life threatening exercise.
- They should anticipate my personal needs and make sure the toilet seat is warm before I get there. Especially in winter when that seat is freezing and it causes your rectum to shut like a clam and induce immediate constipation.
- They should do all my filing. At home, at work, even during community service. I’ve reduced my piling system by switching to electronic documents as far as possible but there are still certain agreements I’m force to sign using a pen. Aarrggh! Putting those away in a file somewhere is like going for a root canal without anesthesia.
- They should remind me of all the important dates on a calendar so I never miss an important event. Like an anniversary or a birthday or an upcoming rugby final.
- They should take notes of all the things the Wife tells me during random conversations in front of the television, so I’ll refrain from looking like an idiot who wasn’t been paying attention. Especially in times when the mates arrive for a braai on the same night as a dance recital.
- They should always ensure that my phone is charged, thereby reducing the risk of an aneurysm and me throwing the damn thing against a wall.
- They should memorize every person I meet, especially in those times when the Wife is not at my side and I end up talking to a person for twenty minutes without having a clue who he or she is.
- They should follow me around the gym and hit every person who drops weights on the floor with a dumbbell. And every person who doesn’t wipe down the equipment after they’ve used it, with a treadmill.
- The other half should follow Princess everywhere. Little stalking minions. And the reason is an obvious one. She’s turning 13 and suddenly discovered boys. Or a lot more disturbingly, Dude’s mates have discovered that his sister is a girl. Minions will allow me to use my very specific set of skills and track and kill any prospective suitors BEFORE they infiltrate my house.
See, I told you my life would be perfect with a few minions in it, but now you simply have to agree: Minions Rule! Now go watch the movie.