When butlers strike

By Tiber

My parents’ butler, Brunty, has been on strike all week. The problem is, nobody knew it.

Mom and Dad hadn’t had any visitors this week so Brunty wasn’t announcing any callers.  As you know, since Brunty’s getting a little older and the house isn’t getting any smaller, he can never remember who was at the door so he’ll just say anybody.

Last week, though, Brunty located Dad and told him, “Nostradamus is here to see you, sir.”

Then, Dad didn’t want to go to the door at all.  Mom said he was being an idiot.

“Am I, Gwen? It’s all good fun to read about Nostradamus but do you really want him coming to your home and giving you predictions about yourself?!?”

“It’s not Nostradamus!!!”

“You know we have ghosts here, Gwen, and they certainly could have called him!”

Of course, it wasn’t the ghost of Nostradamus. It was just Dad’s business associate, Joyce Dodd-Thomas, so at least that time, except for the gender, Brunty had been sort of close.

Anyway, Mom also had a visitor come to dinner last week and that time, Brunty decided that, because the man was bald, he must be related to Benito Mussolini. Because of this, when Brunty served the salad, he “accidentally” dropped the salad tongs, tongs down, into the poor guy’s crotch.

Mom immediately had Gabby start serving instead and Brunty went back to sitting in his hall chair. Without anyone to announce or serve this week, Brunty has been sitting in his hall chair for 16 hours a day instead of his usual 15 and 1/2 and no one realized that he was actually on strike.

Evidently, he was striking so Dad won’t fire any of the staff in this bad economy, even though Dad has made it clear that he’s doing everything he can to avoid this.

I just came from the billiards room and Brunty is still sitting in the hall. For all I know, he now may be on strike to save endangered pumas. I think we’re going to have to get him a sign.

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