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by OmarG |
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| Faux
holiday soy/tofu turkey pounds gained: 55, v.v.
bad. Chupa Chups: Have turned wrappers into giant, Indiana Jones-like rolling ball Licks: So sad a zero it hurts. Bad zero. Less than zero. |
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| Although
it has only been a day since my last diary entry, it
feels like much more time has passed. Weeks, even. This
morning, I received a mysterious phone call while the
Master was away at his new coffee haunt in The Town. "Stately Luthor Manor," I answered the phone, as is my wont. "'Ello! Dear boy, is this Lex?" "If this were Lex, I would be trying to find a way to remove my own tongue and lick my head with it."\par \par "..." "Hello?" "Ah. Yes. Well, I'm trying to ascertain a shedyule [I know he was trying to say 'schedule,' but he said it all fruity tooty, just like that] for Mr. Lex Luthor." "The Master? What do you want with the Master?" "Ah. Yes. Well, I er... I'm from a magazine. A very British magazine. Um. Bald Fox Hunters Quarterly. It's called that because it is a quarterly magazine. About fox hunters. Who are bald." "I'll alert the Master --" "No! I mean, we want it to be a surprise. You know, like a surprise English fox hunt! Oh yes, how fun!" "I don't really..." "Could you just tell us if he'll be at the museum opening this week? We have a... fox... that we'd like to surprise him with. A quarry, yes, wot wot, and such." "What what?" "No. Wot, wot." "What?" "Exactly." "Huh." "So, will he be there?" "Yeah, I mean he's hosting the damn --" "Great! Thank you! Cheerio!" And then he hung up. I hate British people. They think they have the best manservants in the world. But you know what? They don't. I wish the Master was home. My tongue is getting soggy. |
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