“Montgomery!” I shouted. “Mont-gom-er-y!“

He materialized as if from nowhere. “Pip-pip, Master Carver. ‘Ow wuz it down at the coffee ‘n’ perk?”

“The what?”

“Oh, I say. Just a bit of Brit rhyming there — coffee ‘n’ perk, meaning ‘work?’ Wot wot.”

I stared at him blankly. “Montgomery, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that everything you know about the British language comes from watching television. That bit about the rhyming, for example. I know I saw that on The Jeffersons once.”

“Yes, well, we can only speak as the Creator sees fit, guv’nor. Now then, wot can I do for… oh, I say.”

“What now?”

“Did you happen to step in a bit of shine ‘n’ spit?”

“What?”

“Er, that is — dog shit?”

“No. But that’s why I need you. I crapped my pants on the way home. Again.”

“Wot wot! Well, that won’t do at all. You just slip out of those filthy trousers and scamper on up to a hot bath. I’ll have a pitcher of Old Fashioneds to you before you can say ‘Ol’ Queen Liz,’ ay?”

“Sounds good,” I said as I removed my pants and draped them over Montgomery’s outstretched arm. “Oh, and one more thing?”

“Yes, guv’nor?”

“My new Escalade — I’m pretty sure I left some king-sized skidmarks on the driver’s seat. Be sure and get those out before anything soaks in.”

“Sure and betweedle, Master Carver. Don’t you worry about a thing. Ol’ Montgomery’ll take care of it lickety split, or my name’s not Montgomery.”

I may not be able to understand half of the gibberish that comes out of his mouth, but I have to admit that Monty’s a hell of a butler. Anyhow, time for me to hop in the tub. Feel free to join me if you’re attractive and in the area, ladies.

See, the boys in R&D unveiled their latest design, which meant that I, along with several of my underlings, had to attend a product rollout meeting. You know, brainstorming. Figure out how we were going to run this baby up the flagpole, and just how many people might salute it. Given the strict confidentiality clauses in Luddite, Crapstone & Fuchs’ employee contracts, I’m not allowed to tell you what that product is. So for the sake of argument, let’s say it was a double-headed, solid gold dildo that squirts peanut butter out one side and jelly from the other.

With me so far? Good. It also means you’d probably do a better job than any one of the halfwits who currently call me boss.

“So let me get this straight,” my VP, Sherm Schweinbumser, said after R&D’s Bosco Peterman finished his eminently followable demonstration. “It shoots jelly out the one side, and… mustard out the other?”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered.

“What? Mustard? Who told you mustard?” Peterman asked. “Peanut butter, boy! Pea! Nut! Butter! That’s pretty much the exact opposite of mustard. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Oh, okay,” Schweinbumser nodded, jotting something in his ever-present and apparently useless notebook. “Got it.”

“Wait wait wait,” piped up Len Squidley, head of my sales team. “What kind of jelly?”

“Does it matter?” Peterman asked.

“Of course it matters. If you want me to sell the damn thing, I need to know what kind of jelly it squirts.”

“Any kind of jelly the customer wants. We don’t supply the jelly, just the dildo.”

“Now hold on!” some other idiot added. Not sure what his name is, but I’m firing him when I find out. “Why are we supplying mustard but not jelly?”

Peterman grimaced. I’d seen that look before, too. It either meant he was about to fill his britches or he was having heart palpitations. “Goddammit! I already told you numbskulls — it’s peanut butter out one side, and jelly out the other! No goddamn mustard, no goddamn ketchup, and we don’t supply either!”

“We don’t supply mustard or ketchup,” Schweinbumser said, scribbling furiously. “Got it. Hey Squidley, better make a note of that for sales. Oh, but hey, Mr. Peterman — what about the peanut butter and jelly? What brands are we supplying? It is peanut butter and jelly, right? Or did we decide to go with mustard and ketchup?”

With that, the unmistakable smell of shit filled the room and Peterman hastily excused himself. Oh well. At least it wasn’t a case of his ticker going bad on him again.

“Alright you morons, looks like this meeting is over,” I growled. “The only reason I’m not demoting you all is because your idiocy managed to keep it from cutting into my lunch. Now then, return to your posts — dismissed!”

And so it goes. The worst part is, I’m sure Peterman’s going to remember this when it comes time for quarterly reviews. The upside is, if my crew’s stupidity continues to distract him, he may never find out that I’m screwing his wife.

Speaking of which, gotta run. I’m not the type to keep a lady waiting.

Oh well, it’s not like I have to clean it up; the maid’ll be here inside an hour. If she doesn’t like it, she can lump it.