Hot Egg, Cool Meat

I had a lot of assistants before Jeremy. First there was Sandra, then Ming, a Ph.D. candidate from MIT, followed by many others whose names and identities have mummified in my tiny, tiny mind along with the condiments with which I seasoned them.

Jeremy, still life, frightened

Jeremy is different. First, he is from Connecticut, which as you know is an entire state dedicated to housing dim-whits. Second, he is an indentured servant whose bus fare interest compounds hourly. Third, he is much, much faster than Tubba.

One of Jeremy's duties is to get me a hot sausage and egg sandwich every morning. It's wrapped in wax paper and I don't eat it until the paper has become completely saturated with grease and has melded in places with the cheese.

Jeremy lives in the guest bedroom, except when we have guests, when he must sleep in the closet (where he spends most of his time anyway). I trip over him to remind him of his place.

I admire his resilience because in my experience, these people are so much more pleasurable to break. Slowly, I wear him down. I introduce him to my afternoon pre-K class as my assistant (all of the other assistants are called "Nannies"). In public, when he tries to stop me from ankle-biting and candy stealing, I scream "go with you where? You're not my Host!"

But Jeremy has found ways to thwart me. He carries cheddar bunnies in his pockets. He purchases (and keeps in a safe deposit box) bi-yearly tickets to a live Rush Limbaugh taping, along with a whacking salami and decoy Oxycontin.

He just... gets me. He anticipates my needs. And that's really important in an assistant. Plus he brings home drunk co-eds on the weekend and those bitches be so f'ing easy to catch, as long as they don't wake up while you're hosing them down.

T-Bone out.