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Do you know why Mickey Mouse wears gloves? So that he does not leave fingerprints.
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels
With everything going on in Hollywood today, I often find myself fielding questions: “Mr. Iger, why won’t you pay writers and actors a living wage?” “Mr. Iger, are you intentionally portraying yourself as a cartoon villain?” “Mr. Iger, why would you possibly need so much money?” Well, here is my honest answer: I have Mickey Mouse living in my basement, and he must feed.
It is true. The rambunctious but well-meaning rascal you know and love is in reality a monster who requires 16 tons of live feed per day. Mickey Mouse does not have friends, he only has victims. His shorts are red with the blood of those he devours.
All of my wealth is funneled into keeping him sated, and yet still I cannot keep up with Michael’s endless hunger. Ever since his conception 95 years ago, he has passed through the care of every Disney CEO. We house him, we feed him, and we attempt to keep at bay the devil within him. But through the ages, as Disney profits grew, so did the mouse.
Every few years I must move into a larger and more ostentatious mansion, simply so that this goliath of myth can continue to fit into my basement. He thinks only of his next feeding, and I live in fear of the day when I cannot provide it to his satisfaction and he turns on me. I merely pray that I can prevent him from leaving my estate and feasting upon the innocent. Only a few months ago, when the writers first called the strike, he ate Pluto.
As he expands, Michael has lost the power of speech and of mercy. He is well on his way to becoming his own universe. He only knows violence, and what he can gain wielding it. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse? Nay, it is a haunted house, patrolled by the mournful souls of those he gorges upon.
Every day I spend millions ensuring that I do not become just another of his victims. I saw what he did to Minnie, after finding her in bed with Goofy. “Aw, gee,” he sighed as he strangled her with her own bow. These were the last words he ever spoke aloud. I will never forget them.
He has my family. We are at his mercy, and the only way to remain favorable with him is by spending billions of dollars per year buying out pet stores and underfunded zoos to slake his thirst. I am only a man!
I do not know why he exists, or how he has become this way. Perhaps he is Walt’s final revenge. Perhaps he is a product of the Disney Company’s own gluttony. Perhaps he is karma for The Lion King (2019). But I cannot afford to think of such things.
Here is what I can think about: Mouse teeth are sharp and precise, and I feel the phantoms of them on my neck in my nightmares. With his gigantic ears, Michael can hear his prey breathing. He can count my heartbeat; he can measure my terror. Do you know why Mickey Mouse wears gloves? So that he does not leave fingerprints.
I will admit that perhaps I have allowed my fear of Michael to turn me into a monster myself. I will never forget what Michael Eisner told me on the day I inherited the mouse: “When you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” I no longer feel joy, or even peace — I only feel anticipation for his next feast.
I do not ask for pity from you, the general public, but understanding. Yes, writers and actors may be trapped by bad contracts and an unfair system, but I am also trapped by a homicidal mouse. To all those affected by the strike, I am sorry. But, I ask you, what do you want me to do? Either they starve, or the mouse does.
Wait. I hear a rumbling, a shaking of the floorboards. He must have discovered my glue trap; I knew that was foolish. He can hear my frantic writing of this plea. He knows of my deception. He is coming. Hot dog.
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Courtesy : https://thebelladonnacomedy.com/i-cannot-afford-to-pay-you-because-mickey-mouse-is-living-in-my-basement-and-he-must-feed-by-bob-263bc44a2ca4?source=rss—-e9e22d25fb5e—4