There is a small island in the Himalayan Sea called Malderiki, upon which I own a large mansion. Every year after the first rain, the Newport Beach Wine Society (of which I am a member) gathers at my mansion to watch the island's natives grovel in the mud as their pathetic straw dwellings are ripped apart by the rising waters. On this island there is also a fish, called a Piranha Giganticus. Coinciding with the first rain, this fish swims into the flooded island and begins to feed on the older and weaker natives of Malderiki. Unable to defend themselves from the killer fish and utterly helpless, the natives make their way to my mansion in makeshift canoes. At this point, the Newport Beach Wine Society opens a bottle of pre-revolution French Chardonnay, dated no later than 1760, and places wagers on which native will be the first to reach the high ground of my sprawling lawn. Once the fish has fed and returned to the Sea, there are typically a handful of natives left on my lawn, at which point we activate the electric fence and release the crocodiles. Last year, during the crocodile feeding, a tiny speck of native flesh was flung from the lawn up to the balcony where the Newport Beach Wine Society was gathered and landed on my shoe. I retrieved the piece of flesh and placed it in my mouth, washing it down with a glass of Moldovan Pino Griggio. Right now, YOU are that piece of flesh.

im keving