Thu, 19 May 2005

you’re the stink on my cake
Marjorie kept saying that I should come up, that I could move in with her and her husband and her two boys and be the family manservant. “You wouldn’t have to actually do very much other than crack wise and buy groceries, and that’s about all you do in Iowa, other than sulk,” she said, which was true in a technical sense, but that didn’t mean I was about to be some fucking manservant. First, I did not like her children, and sure we all know that I don’t like children, but I particularly don’t like her children, because they’re so much like her husband, and probably the less I say about that the better. How can I work on my diabolical experiments with little people running around sticking their fingers in sockets and screaming about whatever stupid crap televison children are into this season? I’m the dark prince of American fiction! I can’t move to the suburbs!

We thus decided (well, I decided and she got used to it) that I would stay right where I am, but I would build a ROBOTIC MANSERVANT in my own likeness. This required a bit more introspection than I am normally comfortable with (which is none), so that I sent the ROBOTIC MANSERVANT to work one day to see if it would fool my boss. I haven’t said more than “hey” to my boss in a month, so it wasn’t much of a test, but it was a smashing success nevertheless, at least until some creep who has been hanging around the graveyard a lot tried to chat up the ROBOTIC MANSERVANT as to whether or not his wife was actually buried in the plot she had registered, he seemed to remember it being closer to a tree, it’s been three months since the funeral and no one will give him a straight answer. I happen to know for a fact that she’s buried in the right place as I dug the hole, but as I figured the ROBOTIC MANSERVANT wouldn’t have to get a job (besides the manservanting) I didn’t bother to include any information as to my many prior careers, and so the ROBOTIC MANSERVANT chased the grieving husband down the street, out to that prefab housing clump across the highway, which probably means I’m gonna get fired. It’s been that kinda month.
(12:26.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #