How are we going to make money? I demanded of Parkenstein.
Dunno, he replied. Maybe we could sell our cute little asses.
Hmm, I muttered. Buyer’s market. We’re fucked.
Or not, he mused.
Or not indeed, I nodded. So what then?
Well, maybe we could sell people something to make them feel better in these recessionary times.
Drugs! I ejaculated.
No, he said. Not fucking drugs, for fucksake.
Drink! I shouted.
Not drink either. Parkenstein buried his head in his one good hand. We need something better than drink and drugs.
Better than drink and drugs. That’s a tough one. Sex, maybe?
Not sex, he said. Next thing you know, they’ll be using the C-word.
Cunt? I ventured.
Commitment, replied Parkenstein.
Oh Jesus, I said. That’s terrifying.
It is indeed, confirmed Parkenstein. Appalling. That won’t happen. To make money, we need something else. We need to sell people something they really want. Make them feel young, attractive, happy, tanned, fit, thin, talented.
You mean we should set up a Hair, Nails and Chin clinic?
Well, said Parkenstein, HNC is a legitimate branch of medicine and I have already endowed a chair at the University of Hollywood, but no. Not for making serious money.
No? I was astounded. What then?
Well, he said, I was thinking. What about setting up the Church of Scienticity? It’ll be based on the idea that an incredibly good-looking alien lives just inside your eyebrow, and it can be released by paying the two of us a big fucking pile of money.
Hmm, I objected. Isn’t that a heap of shite?
‘Tis, he nodded, sucking lazily on a Coconut Fool. Your point?
Well, it’s supposed to be some sort of religion but in fact it’s all horseshit.
Parkenstein paused and raised himself on one elbow. And your point is?
I considered for a moment.
Ah! I said.