ROYAL RESIDENCE 20
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THE ROYAL RESIDENCE
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This is episode twenty. It must be the full moon. It felt like
shit this morning and didn't get out of bed until my butt was
flat and turning purple from having been lain and sat upon for so
many hours (roughly since three o'clock yesterday afternoon -- I
was a tired queen; sue me). Mr Cheez slaved his pierced tits
over the laundry while we watched the movie Mission Impossible.
Every time he went to the basement to check on things or to move
stuff to a dryer, we stopped the tape. It sat on The Price Is
Right and then we wouldn't get back to the movie until the
current batch of contestants had been dispensed with. Isn't it
funny how they are so formulaic? -- there's the dizzy housewife,
the clownish black person, the cute hunk, and the dignified
elder. Anyone who wears a costom-made teeshirt bearing shameless
Barker sycophantry will automatically be called to the front.
Feh.
I got a quick swoosh 'n' doosh with a bowl of soapy water around
noon. While I did the parts I can reach, Mr Cheez cleaned out
the fridge from the Odwalla OJ that sat in there over a week, got
ripe and exploded. Three days ago I told him to drink that shit
or throw it out. He never does what I tell him and he knows it
is for his own good. Therefore he had to suffer. All he does is
grouse about how much I am like his mother. After Mr Cheez
finished the fridge, he washed my balls and things and shook me
like so many potatoes into my tardpants and hauled my dead ass
into the chariot. We went out for vittles.
Mr Cheez went to the art supply store in the not-nice section of
Market Street and came out ranting about inattentive store
clerks. We went to Wendy's down the block where he had
difficulty with the raghead on the counter about the order. The
raghead has never been told not to try to eat the microphone.
Consequently, the distortion added to his thick sandnigger accent
virtually guaranteed fuck-up after fuck-up out of the kitchen.
After swiping a monster fistful of straws, Mr Cheez sat his butt
on a granite street furniture thang and smouldered while he
smoked. He then announced he was still hungry.
We went into the Taco Bell a few doors away which I had always
passed up as being a TB Express, a hole in the wall. This place
went on and on and on, way way back to the end of the block. The
floor show was better here than in Wendy's, so I think we will be
back. There was an honest-to-Glub tard in there who couldn't
talk well and who groveled and did the tongue thang. Groveling
is the fine art of sickening onlookers by placing a hand into
one's pants and rooting around in there. If I may say so, I do
an excellent artificial grovel. It has all the moves but I am
not really touching my nads.
As we were in the middle of consuming our burritos and things, a
dreadful unclean piss smell overtook the place. I remarked,
Jesus Christ, somebody pissed their pants -- last week. Mr Cheez
sniffed the air hoping for the best, and said he didn't smell
anything. Piss freak that you are, you really missed out on this
and it is ample evidence you need to quit smoking. The head
busboy soon detected the bum responsible for the aroma therapy
and ejected the gentleman. I tempted Mr Cheez severely by
whimpering about how cute the boy in the booth around the corner
was. He nearly broke his neck twisting round to spy on the kid
through the plastic PANSIES (does this place know its audience,
or what?) and then he noticed the kid's girlfriend was a -- a --
MOESHA! I can be so cruel and enjoy it so much .
When I went down to check my mailbox in the lobby to see if
anybody loves me (they didn't -- they don't even want money
today), I got on the elevator trusting it to stop at the lobby.
It went to the basement where a female cop got on. Seeing me in
a wheelchair she starts talking to me like I'm a tard. I went
along with her dehumanizing assessment by pseudo-groveling and
doing the tard tongue thang for her. By the time we got to the
lobby she was suitably disgusted. Goddam flatfoot bitch, go
ticket some taxi drivers and leave us the hell alone!
There wasn't anything in the mailbox so I redeemed the trip by
sitting in the lobby to watch the passing tourons. I am proud to
say I nauseated not less than eight Omaha bovines and tempted two
Chinese ladies into nearly decapitating themselves by their not
stopping staring. Then the flatfoot bitch came roaring out of an
anteroom and commanded one of our zanier residents to halt. It
seems he threatened another resident with a carpenter's square.
You have to give the geek points for originality. About this
time the house Mexican queen sashayed off the elevator and went
over to a coffee table to retrieve "her" jacket. This young
raghead woman who lives here started in on the queen and they
soon had it revved up to the Bitch and Motherfucker stage.
Judy Garland came in with her little dog, too, and was doing her
usual They-Tried-to-Poison-My-Little-Darling rant. She had the
one who thinks she is Gloria Swanson in tow. Miss Swanson comes
complete with the Hat of Mystery and way too much cocksucker red
lipstick for her closeup, Mr DeMille. I heard the coroner's
bunch was here this morning; it really pays to get rid of those
"dead cards" on the doorknob. I observed to the day man on the
desk that hardly anybody who lives in this place is wrapped very
tight and I think I am beginning to unravel myself. I asked a
rhetorical question of the activities lady, Does anyone who uses
the elevator ever take a freaking bath?
In other news today, someone is taking potshots at cars on a
South Bay freeway, three men have been arrested for piling onto a
female high school senior, our fancypants Mayor chickened out on
a debate about the proposed new football stadium, and another
geek scientist (this time from Colorado!) says the major
earthquake fault in the East Bay will devastate the Bay Area
soon, like in ten to thirty years. Other than that, the
Transamerica Pyramid and the Bank of America Building are still
the most prominent piles in town, we are filling up with tourons
and conventioneers on schedule and all's basically right with the
world. At least things are no more crazy than usual. Odds are
they will continue more or less the same until one of those ice
ball comets makes it through the atmostphere. In the meantime I
think I will plan on having a nice summer.
So saith Da Liturgist, So saith Da Kaween, Go forth and be
Tasteless, you cunts!
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