"Aww, he's just like us," the mediocre will often say when trying to humanize those they are intimidated by, "that fella still puts his pants on one leg at a time."
This phrase does not apply to me, as I am inherently superior to everyone. In order to demonstrate, beyond the shadow of a doubt, this superiority, I have aquired the ability to put on pants two legs at a time.
Often my underlings, who I am forced to employ by the widespread unavailability of super-effiecient androids, will question my position at the top of the worldwide human pyramid. "Who does this guy think he is?" they say in hushed tones by the water cooler. While robotic technology lags, water-cooler-slash-sensitive-microphone technology has been making remarkable leaps in recent years. I hear every word.
To smother this baby insubordination in the cradle, I wield the pillow of fear. As is my custom, I summon the most uppity employee to my palacial estate. He must not know the route he took to get there, but sending a car for him is a waste of gas and puts unneccesary miles on my fleet of bulletproof handcrafted all-platinum (save for the diamond windows) limousines. Therefore the employee is guided by cellular phone instructions from my head manservant, Parsley. In order to make this particularly frustrating for the driver, Parsley speaks in a muted whisper and often pretends to be distracted by something on television.
Once the employee arrives, he is met by the doorman, who saps him on the head near the portion of the brain my private team of neurologists has determined contains the memory of directions to people's foreboding mansions.
When he awakes, he are in my bedchamber, sitting in a chair I had specially shipped in from Burma. The Burmese are world reknowned for their disregard for Western ideals of comfort and ergonomics, and for their tendency to forget to put all four legs on a chair that requires that many. Attempting to keep his balance on the Burmese fall-overer, as it is called, is enough to snap the employee out of his delerious post-head-trauma state. That, and the fact that I stand before him, wearing no pants.
If he stays sitting upright, demands to know "what in the hell is going on" quickly give way to protestations that he "doesn't swing that way," all the while averting his eyes from my indulgent silk boxers.
I yell for silence, and insist that I am quite heterosexual, and in fact my dalliances with all the world's most perfect specimens of femininity no doubt make his pitiable sex life look like a child's My First Heterosexuality playset, Ages 8-12. Then I have his treasonous remark played back over the bedchamber's sound system; in a sped-up manner that makes him sound like a chipmunk, if I am feeling particularly sadistic.
"So," I say, "you and your co-workers feel that you are every bit the man I am?" My god-like baritone bounces off the vaulted ceilings, and the mutinous dog begins to cover his eyes and look at the floor, having only heard the word "man" and "bits" and expecting, thanks my pantsless status, a "show of force" as it were.
"Parsley!" I say, "bring me the pants."
Parsley enters from a side panel, carrying on a gilded tray my finest pair of trousers. He walks slowly toward me, and I would have some ominous music played, but Parsley, like all good manservants, emits a slow and unnerving snare roll when there is tension that needs enhancing.
The trousers are laid before me, and Parsley scuttles from the room. I stare penetratingly at the employee, then at the pants. I have often considered hissing behold! at this point, but silence seems to be most effective.
I reach for the pants, and, in a manner incomprehensible to all but God and the being most closely resembling him on Earth (yours truly), put them on both legs at a time.
After witnessing this, one subject had an anuersym, keeled over, and died drooling on my zebra rug, which then had to be replaced (intensifying my search for Scotch-Garded zebras). The rest of them have been shocked into silence, and are driven in their own vehicles, blindfolded, by Parsley back to their residences. Parsley sees to it that they emerge from shock enough to open the doors to their houses, then takes a cab back to the estate.
The next day, the vacant eyes of their comrade tell the water-cooler chatterboxes all they need to know.
He is not like us. He does not put his pants on one leg at a time.
Sometimes I summon them even if they haven't said anything. It is really a very neat trick.Posted by DC at August 10, 2003 03:37 AM