That Confounded Maid Will Be The Death Of Me

Pictured: Harswil Manchester III, Esquire

This E-Webbing allows me to express my discontent with quite a variety of subjects, as you've undoubtedly noticed, my E-Readertrons. But zounds! I never expected to be expressing displeasure with one of my own nubile servants, whom I handpick myself from a book of photographics that arrives weekly from some distant Mexican land! Yet here I am, dictating the column to the ever-reliant and yet eternally-daft Jibsley in a whisper, as I am afraid that my very own life may be taken by one of these black widows!

The main problem, besides the fact that the servant in question is hopelessly entrenched in poverty and therefore terrible retardation and filth (at this point, Jibsley suggests to me through his notepad that I am a direct cause of her lack of wealth, an act of insubordination so blatant that I immediately commanded him to hurl himself through my second story bed-quarters window, which he did dutifully, returning several hours later to continue my column), is that she places objects in the wrong places. The wrong places, oh my saints and lions! My hands tremble as with palsy just pondering the idea, and I fear Jibsley will soon have to wrap them in bamboo leaves and Isopropyl Alcohol.

For instance, I recently ventured outside of my quarters to consume a large piece of cheese, as I was feeling unusually famished and my repeated tappings on the wall had failed to produce someone to fetch the cheese for me. On the way to the kitchening, I decided I was feeling a bit peckish, and would consume bread beneath my cheese, in tribute to the Earl of Sandwich, who was quite fond of such outlandish things, being a god-damned crazy devil! But nothing the Earl ever did could prepare me for the shock I received when I opened the bread pantry, and my hand brushed against a package of muffins that were on one of the shelves!

"Heavens and Christ!" I screamed, vaguely aware of an artery in my Large Toe bursting and filling my slipper with blood cells! "There are muffins mixed in with my bread!"

Jibsley immediately rushed to my aide (who the devil knows where he was prior to that, although I have long suspected him of pursing activities of the Auto Erotica variety inside one of my bathing quarters, a thought so horribly gruesome and potentially fatal that I will eventually require an operation to forcibly remove it from my brains), bravely eating the entire package of muffins so that they could not damage me further. But no sooner had he begun to choke on the fiendish plastical-wrapping coating the package than I saw another suspicious package in the pantry!

"More muffins!" I gasped, my eyes focusing more even as I tried desperately to widen the pupils. "English muffins!" Immediately, a strange mixture of humors -- blood, plasma, and urine -- began to flow freely from my nose cavities, and I felt faint. Yet still I clung to reality, determined to find the identity of the terrorist -- for that's who I was certain had done this to me, after hearing of similar events over the TeleVoxel -- who had done this.

"Watch for terrorists!" I tried to advise Jibsley, who was spasming on his back (whether due to his airwaves still being blocked by Plasticon or merely out of sympathy for me, or possibly a mixture of both, I couldn't tell), but it was to no avail -- in addition to my leaking humors, the smells of the English muffins and normal bread had combined to form a sort of airborne Deadly Nightshade, and my other toe burst with a loud bang, causing my eardrums to rupture!

"Gblarrg," I gurgled, sure I was finished, and at that very moment the blasted nubile maid walked by, and asked me with a smile -- a smile, by the heart of Moses! -- if I liked the English muffins she bought at the Market and put into the pantry!

"It was you all along, you banshee," I croaked, but she had already caught wind of my humors leaking all over the floor, as well as Jibsley's loud sucking sounds (which I have to confess were beginning to irritate me at that particular moment in time) and did not pay me heed, for she was already scrambling for medical attention, for which I was grateful.

But wait! I thought to myself. The medical attention could be a trap set by this swarthy woman-daemon! With my last ounce of strength, therefore, I attempted to crash through my hidden escape hatch in the pantry before remembering that I was in the wrong pantry, crashing into the wall and bringing various spice-products down on my skull, some of which burst open and flowed into my eye sockets!

Needless to say, Intercon Webtulas, I am now recuperating under the care of Jibsley, whom I mostly trust not to harm me, despite his possible unhealthy fixation with his own bodily doings. I would very much like to fire the foul wench who nearly killed me, but I most likely cannot due to Affirmative Action! My only hope, then, is to trick her into looking into a mirror, which is a common trick to get hell-spawns to return from the abyss from whence they came!

Harswil Manchester III is the oldest man on the planet, and is wealthier than everyone who ever lived combined and doubled. So far, he is still not murdered.

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