No more half-assed measures for me when it comes to my domestic needs: following a rigorous selection process, I’ve hired an honest-to-god butler to see to my palatial estate.
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.