My brother, El Jefe "the Benevolent" Reflux, has a plan for a future Family Compound out in the sticks, wherein we might all grow old peacefully quilting, tinkering with cars, racing golf carts pell mell through the underbrush, raising bees, holding extemporaneous chamber music concerts in a sunken garden, riding draft horses, singing harmonies, swimming in the barn pool, owning goats (well, maybe not goats) and inventing and marketing gadgets to support our absurdly lush lifestyle.
He refers to this promised land of goat milk and locavore honey as "Mikeuador."
He is quite serious about it, and if there's one thing I know about my brother, it's the fact that when he gets an idea in his head about something, even if its overarching grandeur is something too abstruse for the hoi polloi to conjure or conceive, then by gum that thing will happen if he has to will it into existence by sheer number of times it is brought up in conversation. And sure enough, he appears to be on the verge of pulling the trigger on Mikeuador. Good on you, bro! Your planet-sized dreams far outstrip those of mere mortals, but we are so, so glad to be pulled along in your orbit. I will always be your willing subject, as I have been since that one rainy childhood day we spent in amicable partnership, with you drawing the logos of all the Major League Baseball teams and me coloring them in.
And every dictator knows that a good principality needs a good flag to rally his minions, and that is what I made him. He is the last of my natural siblings to get something handmade from me, and his was trickiest. But at long last, Behold! the symbol of your upcoming subjugation:
This project was not without its trials and tribulations.
