Erasmus is normally loath to dive into the incestuous, self-referential mælstrom that is the infelicitously named blogosphere. But, when called out by name, as by Gustatus Superus over on the Trireme of Love today, he feels it impolite to refuse. So, herewith my contribution to this web game, the premise of which is that one should append a sentence to at least five of the following clauses, which Erasmus is editing into the counterfactual subjunctive, because he finds the verb tense incorrect.
If I were a scientist... I’d be a mad one. It’s alive! It’s alive!
If I were a farmer... I’d ride the back forty with a Winchester .45-70 lever action, keeping varmints, trespassers, and revenooers off mah land.
If I were a musician... I’d love to sit in with Lyle Lovett, the Killers, or the E Street Band. (On keyboards, I guess.)
If I were a doctor... I’d have to learn how to play golf.
If I were a painter... I’d be Rembrandt. Or Caillebotte.
If I were a gardener... I’d be Alan Titchmarsh, because I’d love to have his store of doggerel at my disposal.
If I were a missionary... I would convert the Mongols to a fighting Christian faith, we’d invade China again, and soon I’d be Prester John, baby.
If I were a chef... you would be lining up around the block for my spaghetti sauce.
If I were an architect... I’d resurrect the classical Western tradition of human scale and beauty.
If I were a linguist... I’d do Finno-Ugric or Uralo-Altaic languages. And in my spare time, work on a fantastic forgery like the Voynich Manuscript.
If I were a psychologist... I’d be so in your head, man.
If I were a librarian... I’d be Henry Armitage of Miskatonic University
If I were an athlete... I’d be an NFL wide receiver. I’ve got the hands. Really.
If I were a lawyer... I’d sue Charlize Theron for being too damn beautiful. With punitive damages payable in breathy whispers in my ear.
If I were an innkeeper... there’d always be port behind the bar.
If I were a professor... I’d travel all the freakin’ time.
If I were a writer... Aye, there’s the rub, innit? I’d combine the professionalism of Donald E. Westlake, the prose of Mark Helprin, the grandeur of Robertson Davies, and the humor of Jasper Fforde or Douglas Adams into the most readable, entertaining great novel ever written.
If I were a backup dancer... I’d shake it like a Polaroid® picture.
If I were a llama-rider... I would lead my neo-Incan army into Madrid and loot the Prado. Payback’s a bitch, amigos.
If I were a bonnie pirate... I’d hijack North Korean and Iranian ships and sell the weaponry to the U.S. government. Soon I could afford my own private archipeligo. Which I’d outfit with exclusive resorts to attract the likes of Charlize Theron.
If I were a midget stripper... I’d inevitably meet Kid Rock.
If I were a proctologist... I’d grab Gustatus Superus and put this meme ubi sol non lucet. Then I’d ask him why he signed in as “Ron Mexico.”
Erasmus is not presumptuous enough to "pass on" this game to anyone, given that he tends to assume his readership would fit comfortably (if no doubt incongrously) in the average Californian hot tub or London taxi. He would, however, love to see the answers of V.X. Stern at Outer Life, Soames at the Charlock's Shade, and Puella Nostra Chicagoensis.