ROYAL RESIDENCE 20 ================================================================= THE ROYAL RESIDENCE ================================================================= 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! =================================================================