“What is, sir?” asked my butler, Montgomery, who was standing nearby with a tray of Old Fashioneds at the ready. “The war perhaps? Or the economy? Not the environment, surely. Wot wot?”

“Hmm?” I said, looking up. “What have I told you about speaking when you’re spoken to, Monty?”

“Right-o,” he said. “Cheerio.”

“But seeing as you’re already broken the seal: it’s Harrison Ford. The idiot went and got himself married yesterday. Married for the second time, no less!”

“My word,” said Montgomery.

“Exactly. It’s like reading about someone who previously escaped a fiery death in the heart of a volcano, only to voluntarily re-enter another active volcano at a later date. Madness!”

“Indeed, sir.”

“What about you, Monty? You ever make the Bachelor’s Mistake?”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“Good man,” I said, raising my glass to him.

“Well, it’s not that I’m opposed to it,” he said by way of explanation. “It’s just that I’m as gay as the day is long, and marriage is generally frowned upon for my lot.”

“Oh, that’s… Wait. What?”

“What? Wot wot?”

“Er. Never mind. Look, why don’t you leave the tray of Old Fashioneds and take the night off?”

“Right-o, governor! Pip pip!”

With that, Montgomery was gone. Presumably to enjoy a few hours at a naked dance club or whatever it is that gay men like him do to unwind. Oh well. I hope you all will look at his continued service to me as proof positive that I don’t have a discriminatory bone in my body.

Anyhow, you’ll have to excuse me — I had Mexican for lunch and now I need to drop a deuce the size of an Oldsmobile. Don’t wait up.

Next thing I knew, however, the water around me had taken on a decidedly brownish tinge and the call girls were swimming away from me as quickly as possible. The reason? I had crapped my Speedo.

Not the end of the world, I suppose. My butler, Montgomery, took care of the immediate cleanup duties, and I’ll have the pool drained and disinfected on Monday. And it’s not as if I care what hookers think. After all, I pay them for sex. How much lower could their opinion of me be?

Speaking of which, time for me to motor. I’ve moved the party up to the hot tub, and my second dose of Viagra for the evening is really starting to kick in. Catch you on the flip side.

“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.

They might be awhile, though; the Punch is drifting a mile or so offshore, and I’m not entirely sure of our exact location. All the OxyContin, Viagra, Old Fashioneds, and call girls I consumed earlier probably aren’t helping, either.

Not that I literally consumed any hookers. Two of them are missing, along with the yacht’s captain, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Nor was I involved with the sinking of a charter fishing boat a few hours ago. Just because the Donkey Punch has cannons doesn’t mean I go around using them, after all. Frankly, I’m offended by your accusatory tone.

Curses. I think I just heard one of the Coast Guarders say something about taking an axe to my door, so I suppose I should wrap this up. I doubt there will be any further updates today given my circumstances, but I’ll try to let you know how it all turns out tomorrow. Toot toot.

Not a moment too soon as far as I’m concerned. For one thing, no one involved with the reelection campaign was able to point me in the direction of a decent whorehouse — a completely unacceptable situation in which to find oneself.

For another, I lost my stash of OxyContin at some point during the night, and my usual connection, Skynyrd Dave, was unwilling to fly in for a resupply mission. Given that I’m in a constant state of pain, this simply would not do. No, really. Pain all the time. Honest. Stop looking at me like that, goddammit.

Anyhow, I’m now comfortably ensconced in the first class section of an Airbus A380, quaffing Old Fashioneds and enjoying the amazing view. And by “view” I mean “perky young stewardesses,” who are going to give me a priapism if they’re not careful. Hopefully one of them will be willing to provide emergency medical treatment if it comes to that. It is, after all, a five-hour flight, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want a man’s death on their conscience. Wink wink nudge nudge, eh?

I only spoke to him briefly. Thank god for that. I was trying to balance three Old Fashioneds and a plate of club sandwiches when I encountered a nebbish little fellow that I assumed to be the butler.

“You there,” I said to him. “Hold my food so I can suck down these drinks. And be quick about it.”

He fixed me with a bemused look, but refused to budge. “The name’s [Bartleby?]. Welcome to my party.”

“Oh,” I said, not the least bit embarrassed. “Oswald Carver, your neighbor. Am I supposed to be impressed?”

He sighed wistfully, and looked across the swimming pool at a rather attractive piece of ass who was talking to a small group of people. I set my sandwiches down on a nearby deck chair so as to attend to my Old Fashioneds.

“No,” he said. “But I sure hope she is.”

“Her?” I said, gulping down the first one. “Why?”

“Why?” he echoed, before pausing dramatically: “Because I love her!”

“Oh, for the love of — don’t tell me you’re hung up on some woman. There are, after all, two top-rate whore houses in this town. And their girls are clean, trust me. No need for such theatrics.”

But my neighbor simply shook his head sadly. “You have no idea. All of this?” he said, gesturing at the surroundings. “All for her. All in hopes that she… that she… that she might love me again!“

“Sweet Jesus,” I said, downing the second cocktail. “What are you, 15?”

My host smiled thinly. “I had her once, you know. When I was a younger man. Before I was rich! I had her love before I had wealth. And everything — everything! — in my life since then has been prelude to the day when I shall hold her in my arms again!”

“Good god, man, calm down.”

“I am calm,” he hissed.

“Whatever. Look, not that it’s any of my business, but it sounds to me like you’ve traded up. What will a woman’s love get you, save a bed devoid of variety and days filled with nagging? It certainly won’t afford you the finer things in life. The good stuff costs money.”

“Money?” he said, frantically. “Her voice is full of money! Full of money, I say! Ha ha! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!“

My neighbor then collapsed to the ground, so I finished the last Old Fashioned and turned my attention to the club sandwiches. Needless to say, I’ll be going out of my way to avoid what’s-his-name in the future. Sad sacks like him always come to a bad end, and I don’t want to be there when he inevitably winds up floating face-down in his own swimming pool, borne back ceaselessly into the pump.

Frankly, I blame it on Montgomery‘s world-class Old Fashioneds. I’ve been belting them down since getting home from work earlier today, and my fine Corinthian leather sofa kept feeling more and more comfortable. Next thing I knew, I experienced a great feeling of relief and a soaking wet lap. Needless to say, I don’t rate this as one of my finer moments.

Of course, it could also be a sign of prostate cancer. I guess I’ll make an appointment with Doc Stinebrau, just to make sure. After all, one can never be too careful when it comes to maintaining the love muscle’s plumbing, and I need to get some boils lanced on my ass anyhow.

But first, another Old Fashioned. And perhaps a dry pair of pants. I’d say that I hope your afternoon is going better than mine, but let’s face it — I really don’t care.

The man goes by Montgomery, but I’m not sure if it’s his first name or last. And frankly, given that he’s now an employee, I couldn’t care less. The only thing that matters to me is his sterling resume. Oxford and Cambridge educated? Check. Stint as a medic in the British Navy? Check. Years of distinguished service to a multitude of noted personages, including Princess Diana and Scatman Crothers? Check. Able to mix an Old Fashioned that tastes as if it poured straight from the fuzzy love clam of Aphrodite herself? Check and mate, my friends.

In fact, Montgomery meets so many of the position’s listed requirements that I’m even willing to overlook his hideous glass eye. Pun intended. Don’t get me wrong; the damn thing makes me sick to my stomach. But at least there’s no chance of him stabbing me to death with it, as there was with Kang and his prosthetic hook.

Alright, I’m off to relax poolside with a pitcher of Montgomery’s delicious Old Fashioneds and the latest issue of Top Heavy. Don’t bother calling unless you have official business — unlike Kang, Montgomery knows how to screen out the undesirables.