So I come home from work tonight, and what do I find? My houseboy, Kang, smoking a cigarette on the front porch like nobody’s business. To make matters worse, he was wearing a porkpie hat and my favorite pair of sunglasses.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I barked, expecting him to scuttle away like most children do when faced with my righteous fury. But the past few months of servitude must’ve inoculated him, as he didn’t even flinch.
“Hey, screw you Mistah Boss,” he snarled in rapidly developing, but still broken, English. “Me on break. You make own martini, Mistah Boss.”
“Break?” I said. “Who the hell said anything about breaks?”
“Mistah Federal Government, that who!”
“Mister Fed—! Look, that’s not even the point. The point is, when did you start smoking?”
“Me smoke long time,” he said. “Always on break. But you, you no let me take no break. So you no see me smoke. Me forced to smoke at night, under the covers.”
“Under the covers? Great Nixon’s Ghost. You could’ve burned my palatial estate right to the ground!”
“Feh,” he said, waving me off as he picked up a dog-eared copy of People. “Your insurance cover it plenty, Mistah Boss. Besides, how me supposed to be cool if me don’t smoke?”
“Yeah, okay. I guess you got a point. Go ahead. After all, the surgeon general just announced that smoking doesn’t cause cancer at all. Or any kind of disease.”
“Indeed. So smoke up, kid. You deserve it.”
“Thanks, Mistah Boss,” he said. “Now get out of here so me can enjoy me break.”
Well, that settles it; time to pack up Kang and trade him in for a new houseboy. Good news is, the United States’ third world business partners are constantly churning out fresh batches of devastatingly destitute children just like the little shit, so finding a replacement shouldn’t be too difficult.