Add As Many Lasers As You Want, I’m Still Not Using Them

I had just finished breakfast and was skimming the news when an item caught my eye. “Ha!” I said to no one in particular. “Might as well fund next-generation testicle sandpaper while you’re at it, you four-eyed geek!”

“Wot wot?” said my butler Montgomery, who was clearing the last of the grease- and spittle-covered dishes from the table. “Testicle sandpaper, you say? Color me intrigued! Where might I purchase such an item?”

I folded the paper and gave Monty a befuddled look. “Same place you’d buy regular sandpaper, I suppose. But—”

“Excellent.”

“—why would you want to?”

“Pardon, m’lord?”

“Testicle sandpaper. Why would you want to buy that?”

“Hrm, no reason.”

“Yes, well. Let’s keep it that way. Anyhow, I only mentioned testicle sandpaper in reference to a rather ridiculous article in the paper, as I believe both products will be just as desirable to targeted users.”

“And what article would that be, guv’nor?”

“Here,” I said, pointing to the write-up in question. “See? Bill Gates is offering up to one million dollars to anyone who can develop a next-generation condom. Talk about a waste of time, money, and effort!”

“Hmm, I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“Don’t know that it’s such a waste. After all, current condom technology does leave a lot to be desired, wot wot?”

“Obviously,” I said. “Which is precisely why I refuse to use them.”

“Eminently reasonable as always, sir. But—”

“You know I hate ‘buts,’ Monty.”

“Indeed I do, m’lord. Nevertheless, might you start using condoms should this Gates chap meet his stated goal of a new design that would ‘preserve or enhance the pleasure,’ pip pip?”

“No.”

“Really? My word. And why not?”

“Because,” I said, “if a man needs to have his pleasure preserved or enhanced when he’s plowing through a six-pack of call girls while half-blind from excessive Viagra intake, he’s doing something wrong. Besides—”

At that moment, there was a thunderous cacophony from the kitchen, and Monty and I rushed over to see what had happened. As it turned out, one of the newer maids had gotten hopelessly confused by my high-powered gas range, causing an explosion that killed her instantly, left another maid horribly disfigured, and blasted an oven-sized hole in the wall.

Fortunately, my insurance will cover the damages and the maids were both here illegally, so it could’ve been a lot worse. Still — heck of a way to start the week. Catch you later.

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Categories: Culture, Dating, Drugs, Servants, Violence

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