I haven't figured it out yet. Come back and ask later.

What do I mean, what do you mean?

Wait. Lemme try that again.

What do you mean, what do I mean? That's it.

Of course I'm a beautiful person. Ask anyone! Ask Meowth. Ask Jessie. No... don't ask. Here's what you'll get:

"Are you serious or just stupid?"

"Don't be an idiot. I'm the beautiful one."

And if you ask again, you'll get one of three options: 1. Your eyeballs scratched out. 2. Your arm wrenched out of it's socket. 3. A two-inch dent in your skull. How do I know all this? Um... already tried it.

Okay then. Ask the ravenous hordes of bloodthirsty female fans out there who have devoted their very lives to me.

Or at least websites.

Just don't tell them I called them "bloodthirsty", alright? "Ravenous hordes" may not titillate them either.

What do you mean by that? Titillate is too a word. Go look it up.

Anyway. I suppose I should have clarified a little. When I say "beautiful people", I'm talking about the fabulously wealthy (they're rich too, by the way). Rich, famous, and usually externally beautiful as well.

Now go ask Meowth and Jessie. No... I guess you shouldn't. At least not right after you asked the first time, before you clarified. At that point you'd probably be left with six options, the three above and an additional: 4. A free root canal. 5. Considerable facial mangling (ultimately leading to a need for plastic surgery). 6. Your liver ripped out with a fork.

Me, exaggerating? How could you think that?

Yes, I have a point! And that point is: You shouldn't put a Pikachu in a washing machine.

Wait. Wrong point. (But if you ever survive putting one in a washing machine, I suggest drying it on permanent press to avoid those unsightly wrinkles.)

Where was I? The point, yes. The point is, I could be one of those.

No, a beautiful person, not an idiot who sticks a Pikachu in a washing machine.

As for being externally beautiful, I've got that covered. Back to the rav-- uhh, RAVISHING fans again, they'll tell you. And as you know, if I went back home, I could be rich and famous. If I wanted to go back home.

Yeah, I want to go back home. Like I want a Raticate lodged up my nose.

Yes, I'm being facetious, and yes, that's a word.

So here I am, in Team Rocket. I wouldn't say I was a rich man, more like rock bottom poor. But who needs being rich anyway? Rich guys have to do all kinds of dumb things, like throw big fancy parties where everyone acts all formal and polite, wear those stiff ugly suits, and donate to charities. Blah.

Of course, if I ever got rich, I'm not sure what I'd do with the money. I guess just rule the world or something. Or hole myself up in a big house and eat all day. Mmmm... ice cream and donuts...

Stop staring at me like I'm drooling.

Anyway, what do I have that rich guys don't have? I get beat up, blown up, huge objects dropped on me, electrocuted, torched, paralyzed, vine-whipped, water-logged, skull-bashed, and razor-leafed (to name a few).

Let me catch my breath here.

Okay. Now, what rich guy gets all that, eh? (I'm either lucky or I really am stupid.)

And then I've got my friends. Jessie and Meowth. I know you're thinking, "You sure don't act like friends! They're usually yelling at you or beating you to a pulp!"

What's that supposed to mean, "It's because you're a moron"? I'm not a moron! I'm sure that everyone has... say... bought something completely useless while thinking it would be a gold mine at sometime or another in their lives!

I'm pretty sure...

Quit interrupting. As I was saying, I have Jessie and Meowth, my two good friends. No matter how many times they call me a superfluously ignorant and bumbling imbecile or provide me with any number of welts, bruises, or contusions, we're still the best of friends.

No matter what.

If I went back home, would I have that? Nope. Well, maybe the insults and injuries, but not the friendships. Like I said, I want to go home like I want a Snorlax dancing on my stomach.

Let's not dwell on that mental image, alright?

Here's something to dwell on instead. Total freedom (or at least almost total), wonderful (if sometimes dysfunctional) friendships, a great head of hair, and a cool motto.

Hey, maybe I'm a rich man after all.

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