“Disgusting. Just disgusting,” I said to no one in particular while perusing the local newspaper after work tonight.
“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!”
“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.