I felt heartbroken to a certain extent, he had been like a father to me, a father that would occasionally run through the house in a Michael Jackson costume firing a pistol into the air while exclaiming “Yee-haw” and kicking those heels with those cowboy spurs of his as he rode into the sunset with his merry band of Samurai tarantulas.
The memories would last forever, but I would not, nor would he. Which is why I decided to totally pig out for the last days of my life since I would never find a way out of this house. I stocked up on all sorts of things, chicken wings, the bodies of long deceased people, some popcorn, the bones of thousands of rats, and the Beyond Thunderdome poster, although that tasted kind of bad because the ink they used to color the thing would come off when you were chewing it in your mouth and you got this feeling in the back of your head that it maybe wouldn’t be good for you to eat it, but you do it anyway because you have nothing to lose like Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly.
Alas dear butler, I could not have kept you around, for all the good you have done me, the pain you would have brought could not have been contained in my poor heart, it would have burst and exploded, like Old Faithful, and you would have been to blame. You douche bag.
You seriously suck, I hope someone finds these memoirs (if they can even be called that) and you’ll read them and feel really bad because you were such a terrible butler. I hope you choke on those weird litchi fruits you like so much. In fact, I hope you become so old and senile that you eat one with the shell on and it burns pretty bad as you swallow it down the wrong pipe because the shell is all rough and stuff, you know. SO LONG!
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