I burst through the kitchen door, arms flailing wildly. My slack-jawed butler Montgomery was overseeing the maid and turned toward me as I stumbled forward, a smile on his face.
“Top o’ the morning to you, guv’nor!” he said. “What can I be helping you with? Perhaps freshen up your coffee? More capers? A spot of marmalade to go with your toast?”
I waved off his suggestions and pointed furiously at my throat, then motioned for him to come closer.
“Wot wot? I don’t follow you, guv’nor. But my word, it certainly looks as if you overdid it in the sun. You’re as red as one of them lobsters you ate the other night, or my name’s not Montgomery!”
Strength failing me, I collapsed on the floor. With my last, dying inch, I rolled over on my back, now pointing with both hands to my throat — and gave silent thanks as a cartoon lightbulb all but appeared above Montgomery’s head.
He was on me in a flash, using his naval medical experience to Heimlich me like there was no tomorrow. Which for me there would not have been, had I not had the foresight to hire a proper British butler three years ago. The maid certainly would’ve been useless; she never even stopped washing dishes long enough to see what the fuss was about.
Fortunately, said episode ended when an entire New York strip steak flew out of my gullet and landed with a wet thwop on the maid’s foot. What? Why are you looking at me like that? So what if I like steak with my eggs and often lose myself while reading the financial pages? Is that a crime?
Anyhow, all’s well that ends well. Maybe Monty will even get a raise out of it, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were him. After all, I give my staff performance evaluations at the end of every year, and I doubt I’ll remember this come December. But hey, nobody said life owes you a rim job. Now did they?