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Cabbage Patch? (another random, senseless tale)

I was sitting in my multi-million dollar mansion the other day, sipping herbal tea and dantily daubing at my mouth with a paper napkin made from recycled one hundred dollar bills, when a voice on the radio caught my attention.

Get yo' cabbage patch on! the DJ said. Instantly, the sounds of Holiday spewed forth from the radio, as if in response to this informal demand.

Befuddled, I rose slowly from my mink sofa, reached beneath my Tiffany glass lamp shade and switched off the bulb, and stood with my mouth agape as the camera panned in for a close up.

Cabbage Patch? I thought to myself. Could it be true? Could I possibly have a cabbage patch somewhere in my possession?

Stroking my chin with thumb and forefinger, I tried to visualize the full extent of my domain, in hopes that I might come across my long lost garden of eden. No such luck.

With a snap of my fingers, I signalled for Manuel, my indentured servant, to bring my byplane around front. He did just that, and in a few short moments, we were airborne, soaring gracefully over the Midwestern country side.

But alas, no cabbage patch was to be found. Famished as I was from this unexpected escapade, I resigned to a warm bath in my clawfoot tub, sipping champagne out of a glass fashioned from the Hope diamond.

Tomorrow I thought to myself as Manuel added an extra spoonful of bath salts to the water, We'll have better luck tommorrow.