Sir Robert Vs. Reality
By Mike Stevens
A Sir Robert Tale
Sir Robert Timkins picked up the want-ads in the local paper. After he’d finished scouring them , looking for something that wasn’t there, his shoulders slumped in despair. Nothing! That was the total amount he had found today, like the last 60. Here he was, a trained opera singer, and he couldn’t even find a job selling vegetables door-to-door. When he’d made the decision to disband his band, Sledgehammer Nightmare, little did he know just how much trouble he’d have trying to find another job; any job! He figured to just go back to singing opera, but even that hadn’t worked out like he’d expected it to. The stuck-up opera community had turned their backs on him, because of his association with death metal. They’d stuck their noses even higher in the air, disgusted with him because he’s tried to marry opera singing, with death metal music. Therefore, the world of opera was now closed to him. He’d always thought he’d at least have that to fall back on, but nope! Now what? He’d been backed into a corner. Well, if no business would hire him, he’d start his own. He’d decided to offer his services to teach opera to youngsters. He’d put an ad in the local paper, offering to become an opera coach for young people interested in learning opera singing.
Almost immediately, several parents had called him, wanting him to train little Bobby or little Suzy how to sing opera.
His knock sounded loud in the ears of Sir Robert Timkins. Today, he was meeting the child he’d be teaching everything he had learned over the many years he’d been singing opera.There was a shuffling behind the door, a rattling as the safety chain was undone, and the door swung open to reveal a slim man in a butler’s outfit.
“Yes, Sir Robert Timkins here to see Reginald?”
“And this would be pertaining to?”
“I’ve been hired to teach Reginald opera.”
“Please, sir, please refer to him as Master Reginald."
Master Reginald? This kid sounded pathetically conceited. “Oh, yes of course, Master Reginald.”
He was asked to follow the butler deeper into the house. All along the corridor, rigid faces stared sternly out from their frames, where they hung upon the wall. As they rounded a corner, a stuffy-looking woman in a gold track suit rose from a pristinely-white couch, and said to Bentstone, which apparently was the butler’s name, as he hadn’t offered it to Sir Robert,
“Bentstone, this should be Sir Robert Timkins.”
“Yes, my lady; may I present Sir Robert Timkins; Sir Robert, may I present Lady Olivia Cornhose.”
“Ma’am, a pleasure,” and he extended his hand for a shake.
Mrs. Olivia Cornhose made no move to extract her hand from the pocket where it resided. “Yes, if you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ll introduce you to Master Reginald. I’m afraid Reginald’s father, Thurston, has a charity polo match he’s attending, and will be unable to be here. He sends his regrets.”
Yeah, I’ll just bet he’s all broken up! "Not a problem; I know how those charity polo games are!” A normal person would have picked up on the sarcasm, but Lady Olivia Cornhose just kept walking. Suddenly, a snarling blur came runnin right up and attacked his leg.
“Hey, let go, you little b*****d!” he screamed in rage and shook his foot violently. A shaggy white missile was kicked across the room, and smashed into the wall, dislodging a photograph of a gray-haired gentleman frowning forever from behind glass, where it shattered upon making contact with the smooth wood floor.
“Woolsie Princess, are you okay, baby?”
Woolsie? “I’m sorry, but Woolsie surprised me; I’m fine, I think.”
“That’s Woolsie Princess.”
Woolsie Princess? “Oh, pardon me, Woolsie Princess.”
The dog stood up, apparently okay, gave Sir Robert a look of contempt, and sauntered away.
“Well, she’s looks like she’s alright, which is more than I can say for poor Uncle Cornhose the Third. He’s damaged beyond repair; oh well, I’ll just subtract the replacement value from your fee.”
Wait, she was holding him responsible, and not fur-ball Cujo? On the other hand, he sure needed her money. “Yes, ma’am.”
Just then, a kid of about 13 came into the room. “This is my son, Master Reginald.”
“That’s MasterReginald,” answered the child.
S**t-o-Dear! thought Sir Robert, kid’s a d**k! “Yes, of course, Master Reginald.” Precocious little b*****d!
The mother had taken her gold-colored rear and left; leaving Sir Robert alone with Master Reginald.
“So, Reginald, shall we begin?” Reginald acted like he didn’t hear. “I asked if you’re ready to begin?”
“Oh, I’m sorry; did you mean MasterReginald? Because there’s nobody here who answers to plain Reginald.”
The hell with this! "I tell you what, Reggie, why don’t you start by singing 'I’m a little spoiled f****r in the key of ‘blow it out your a**’, you little p****r!"
Well, needless to say, he’d lost that job. Now what?