Oftentimes, I amuse myself at work by planning elaborate ways of becoming a super villain and taking over the world. Many components go into making a good super villain; outfits, witty banter, an arch nemesis with which to engage in the aforementioned witty banter, an appropriately evil laugh, etc. But one very important factor is your army. It can be minions, henchmen, a hoard of mercenary barbarians, or any number of things. The most important thing is that there be droves of them. Scads, even. Perchance a plethora if you’re feeling spunky. And they must be outfitted well. A common error in super villainy is under equipping your staff. If your underlings are getting mowed down by your foes like so many blades of grass before the whirring blades of a lawn tractor, it does not bode well for you. Not only is it expensive to replace human resources, but it’s bad for morale as well. And the last thing you want is a bunch of demotivated lackeys between you and your enemy.

That’s why I have figured out the one item that must be standard issue to all my troops: An attack unicorn. Hear me out. Picture that you’re one of my foes (if you’re already one of my foes–and you know who you are–this should be easy) and that you’re making a futile attempt to storm my lair. You’ve crossed the moat, defeated the Sphinx and her riddles, and solved the Rubik’s Cube of Eternal Frustration. Nothing left to do but defeat my hoard. Should be pretty simple–but hang on–what’s this now? What’s that crunching rumble that your hear fast approaching? Why it’s my henchmen, astride their titanium-clad attack unicorns. And that crunching sound is not the hooves of their steeds–it’s the tank treads of their steeds. Crushing beneath them the bones of other fools who dared oppose me. And does that majestic, rainbow-hued horn also double as a rocket launcher? You bet your sweet bippy it does. Oh, and how observant of you to notice that my attack unicorns have laser eyes. Most people would just assume that it was magic and wonder twinkling in those crimson orbs. Well, that’s partly correct–magic and wonder and lasers. And just a smidgin of pixie dust. Can’t forget that.

As you cower there–whimpering, soiling yourself profusely and ruing the day you ever thought to cross me– you notice the crowning achievement of my army. It’s my valiant and noble steed. You weep at its beauty. It’s not merely an attack unicorn–it’s an attack Pegasus unicorn. Its glittering wings blind you. It has the standard rocket launcher horn and laser eyes and tank treads in case of land maneuvers, but it also has an additional feature. That’s right, it breathes fire as well. Give up now, puny mortal. Your pathetic endeavor has failed and I have emerged victorious. I am triumphant. All shall love me and despair. Bwah ha ha ha!

… And then I realize that I have been cackling aloud at my cubicle, eliciting concerned and wary stares from my coworkers. I must return to my drudgery for now, at least until I can create a Kickstarter account to fund my attack-a-corns project. Sigh.

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