It never ceases to amaze me — the rapidity with which my father can make everything turn to shit. He’d been living in Shitsville Ranch only a few weeks but thought to update it with a few mod cons, and redecorate with an eye more accustomed to the luxe of Vegas. Also the Robomaid had been unable to stem the tides of filth; instead she had made tracks through it, like paths stamped through the jungle, and then back and forth she buzzed along the same narrow lines, doomed like Sisyphus to repeat that useless task for eternity.
At the least Tom Jones had improved himself — a little. From being a burger king he was now almost starved to death, indeed he stood before the mirror every day (squinting through the grime) repeating “I must – I must be thinner. A new me. The best me I can be!” It was his motivating mantra. That day when he was thin, he said, would be the day when all of his other life’s achievements would pale in comparison. Every woman he passed on the street would be attracted to his long, lean figure, and come panting after him; men would doff their hats as a sign of respect for his ability to attract high class crumpet. Or so I gather. “Well, what do you think?” he asked, as he postured before me, in yoga clothes. He was very pale, so it looked like he’d been worn down after years of being handled in the College of Surgeons as the specimen of average manhood.
Quoth I, “It is comic that a mentally disordered man picks up any piece of granite and carries it around because he thinks it is money, and in the same way it is comic that Don Juan has 1,003 mistresses, for the number simply indicates that they have no value.”
“You are only saying that because you are FAT,” he said. “Anyway, I didn’t fight the war and beat the Nips so that you would come here spouting that ‘Confucius-say’ crap.”