A Sharp-Dressed Manservant

I recently acquired a manservant, and let me say, it's about time. I don't too often dredge up the personal details of my life—few people have the stomach to face the horrible truth about the emptiness of my world outside the commune. It's all work, work, work, although not quite as much work as all that. I tend to spend my time chasing conspiracies, like a lone Fox Mulder, only in the attire of a riverboat gambler and with more incoherent yelling.

I hired Rascal in an attempt to do more with my free time than work. Frankly, I don't think the Ultimate Conspiracy is unraveling any time soon, but I'll keep my eyes on it—never let it be said Red Bagel isn't vigilant. I can just be vigilant in fewer hours, because it's wearing my ass out.

If you looked up "manservant" in the dictionary, you would see a picture of Rascal right there on the page. Actually, the picture is next to the entry for Mansi, a people of the Ob River in Siberia, and I was looking in an encyclopedia. But that third fellow back looks dead on like Rascal. I hired him for his wonderful English accent, so classy and uptight. Then he told me he was from Australia, but it's close enough, as far as I'm concerned.

So finally, I have managed to tear myself away from the office. In a metaphorical sense, this is not another complaint about the vinyl seats on those summer days I wear short shorts. Rascal suggested we go out and update my wardrobe, get something with more earth tones. I don't mind telling you I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman that day, if that's not too weird. It was fun trying on all those clothes and seeing how dapper I could look, like a real gentleman, when I went crazy in the most expensive stores in town. Of course, we didn't buy anything, their prices were shithouse, but when they found out I had tried on the underwear they let me keep every pair.

A man of many talents, Rascal also cooks. His Eggos are the finest to be found anywhere, and he makes all his syrup himself. Actually, he makes it by combining stolen bottles of syrup from IHOPs and Denny's, but as far as I'm concerned that's his creative license. True, it would be nice if he made more than Eggos and syrups, or the occasional burnt pop tart, but never let me be called greedy, sir.

One of the best things about Rascal is his thirst for work. Yes, no one works harder if you stand right there the entire time while the task is to be done—and don't take your eyes off that one, or he'll slip off to nap under a sequoia. But assuming you keep him under constant surveillance, no one works harder. We worked together all day last weekend building a chicken farm, including the chickens, from the ground up. At least we did until Rascal mysteriously disappeared. I found him at the end of the day, but in spite of all that work, he looked well-rested. Put two and two together with me, folks.

But I don't want you to think the Red Bagel house is a dictatorship. It's at least as democratic as the Bush administration. Rascal and I spent all Saturday partaking of his favorite pastime, underground death racing. It's not quite as fun as building a chicken farm, but there's a certain amount of exhilaration watching a car explode right in front of you, showering you with shrapnel and body parts. Suffice to say, we'll be a dictatorship from now on. All the same, I highly recommend getting an English-Australian manservant to all of you who are not poor.

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