Jeffrey, my manservant
Sneaking through a sliver of space afforded by the slats in my Venetian blinds, the morning sun jabbed me in the eye with her thumb.
"Take that, you fat fuck," she barked, "lying there in all your fat fuck-edness. I've hoisted my roasting ass halfway across the sky already and you're still in your Speed Racer jammies?"
"Go screw!" I barked back. "You haven't hoisted anything. This planet rotates on its axis and does all the work for you. You just sit there all hot and pretentious, thinking the whole solar system revolves around you, and maybe it does but that's no reason to think so."
She jabbed me in my eye again as the servant phone rang.
"What in blazes do you want?"
"I trust the master is awake and prepared for breakfast?"
"Oh you do, do you? You trust I'm awake? Well, what makes you trust in that?"
"One would find it difficult not to overhear the master's displeasure with the arrival of the day's light, sir."
"How many times have I told you to fix these blasted blinds, Jeffrey?"
"Once, sir."
"Well, if I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, fix them."
"Very good, sir. Shall I deliver the master's breakfast?"
"Yes yes, and be quick about it. And none of your lip. I don't want any lip. No lip. Do not enter this room unless you're lacking lip like Larry Linville."
"At once, sir."
Jeffrey has been on my nerves for some time now. I would imagine that while he was attending butler school he never envisioned himself working in a one bedroom apartment. I'm certain he saw himself working at a sprawling estate, in charge of cooks and maids and groundskeepers, welcoming distinguished heads of state and announcing the arrival of visiting celebrities.
Well, too bad. I can afford him and he took the job, so there we are. Eighty percent of my income goes toward employing him and any time he wishes to leave he's free to do so. Until then, bring me my goddamn oatmeal.
While some people blow their expendable income on drugs or booze or gambling, I blow mine on a personal valet. It may look queer to the neighbors, seeing a meticulously groomed man in a tuxedo hold open the door of my ten year old Honda as I hop in and dash off for the day, but what of it? It's my money, isn't it? I don't need a big house or a flashy car or new clothes or the latest gadgets. All I need is a dependable manservant, high speed internet, and a reasonably priced hooker to clean my pipes once a week (twice if the squirrel sack is feeling particularly jaunty).
Not everybody wants a wife and a kid and a domestic cliché. Some of us desire to be men of leisure, men of pleasure, emancipated males, uninhibited by social norms and unshackled from the emotional enslavement of the conjugal bond; free agents proudly marching behind our hardened, boastful, autonomous cocks. Some of us desire to be responsible residents who pay our taxes and perform our civic duties and participate in local government and meet all the requirements and expectations of good and decent citizens, and then, at the end of the day, once the clock has been punched, we wish to return home to our one bedroom apartments and be served green tea and ginger snaps by our persnickety butlers while dark-eyed hookers named Kismet and Destiny fulfill the promises of their names.
Jeffrey entered my chambers with a surprising lack of lip.
"On the bed, sir?"
"Yes yes, of course, I'm not expected to eat on the floor am I?"
"I was only thinking of yesterday's breakfast incident, sir."
"That was your fault, Jeffrey. Your assembly of the items was uneven and caused a dangerous teetering of the tray."
"My apologies, sir. Will there be anything further?"
"No, but I would like something farther."
"Sir?"
"The distance between us."
"Very good, sir."
"Wait. What in blazes is this on my toast?"
"The specialty store was out of Mongolian yak butter, sir, so there was little choice but to purchase a domestic brand."
"Domestic butter? Are we savages?"
"The proprietor has been duly admonished, sir."
"Hmmph. Domestic butter. I may as well be putting an infected pustule in my mouth."
"My thoughts exactly, sir."
"Wait, what do you mean by that? Are you giving me lip?"
"Certainly not, sir. I was simply lamenting the concessions the master has been forced to endure."
"Hmm..sure sounded like lip."
"Not at all, sir. Shall I send in today's strumpet?"
"She's here already? No, have her wait until I have finished my coffee and squeezed off a link."
"Very good, sir."
"And Jeffrey.."
"Yes, sir?"
"I present my ass for you to kiss."
"I will have to respectfully decline, sir, as the area being presented offers far too wide a selection of locations from which to choose."
"Fat, am I? A pox be on you..you..deliverer of lip!"
"Very good, sir."
copyright 2007 john bizarre
---
