Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Horn of Plenty

September 11, 2013

Dear Diary,

I have been particularly pissy these last few weeks. I hadn’t really noticed it, but Bart was brave enough to bring it to my attention when he happened upon me beating my new therapist, Dr. Jackson, within an inch of his life. You see, the doctor called me greedy. I may be many things but I will not put up with being thought of as a greedy person. I only want what is rightfully mine, control of the world, and I told him as much. Interestingly enough, I just explained the very same thing to Dr. Freeman just the week before. And by explain, I mean I enlightened him with a katana, and I clarified it right into his throat, down his esophagus, all the way through his stomach, lower intestines and out through his balls.

In this case, however, Bart pointed out that the good doctor had in fact called me needy, not greedy. Which, to be fair to the poor man, I am. While Bart dragged the doctor off to the medic to see what could be done about saving his life—and his eye, which I popped out and played a fair amount of ping pong with before Bart found us—I began to ponder what has had me so upset in the first place. I think I know what it is.

I’m horny.

There. I said it. I am sexually frustrated and if I don’t get some action soon, I think my girly parts might seize up like an engine far past the need of an oil change. Sure, I’ve got my battery operated boyfriend, BOB, but that little guy can only do so much for me. Robots just don’t understand erogenous zones, no matter how many times you point them out. Not that men are much better, but they are slightly more trainable when rewarded with a mind blowing orgasm. And then there is that weird robot voice of BOB’s. Ugh! Not to mention the emotionless commands.

“Press one if that is satisfactory, two if you would like it harder and three for in the ass.”

I think Bart was trying to be efficient by using existing voice software, but I swear it’s like fucking a talking ATM. I don’t want to make a withdrawal, asshole, I want you to make a deposit! A good, strong, long, hard deposit!

Note to self: Audition new voices for BOB. Surely someone in the compound sounds better.

I suppose I should explain the source of my frustration. My fiend with benefits, Dr. Astic, is still in Peru. I know! It’s been almost a month now since they have taken him hostage. I sent him down there to wreak havoc, but all he did was make them more efficient. Turns out, the moment he applied the gender switching ray, the upper echelon of the Peruvian military was able to concentrate on something other than their peckers for five minutes, and in a moment of clarity they organized a counter attack and capture my poor Astic. Which, by the way, I told Astic would happen if you took away a bunch of peniseseses. Peni. Penies. What is the plural for men’s junk? Penises? Point being, while the whole thing has been an interesting social experiment that explains a ton about gender identity and its relation to politics versus efficiency, I would rather have my lover back than say I told you so. I can say I told you so much, much later.

With my vagina.

In other news, my minions botched yet another attempt to capture Captain Sterling. I caught word that he was planning to attend a gala luncheon at the School for Blind Children. Trust that pompous ass to show up and act like he’s the star. As if he cured the little buggers or something. I mean, they may have gotten an education but they are still blind. Anywho, I sent my squad in with a clear objective, but apparently one of them got distracted by a roast beef sandwich. Honestly. A roast beef sandwich. It isn’t like I don’t feed these people. Why should a sandwich distract a highly trained … ah … wait … Caligula just pointed out something I didn’t consider.

Note to self: Make sure the ration budget reflects the additional recruits from last month.

Oops. I guess that was my bad after all. Caligula says I shouldn’t have to worry about such trivial details, but if I don’t, who will? Bart is the only person I trust and I already have his attention split between ten different projects. And I can’t make another Bart without spending half my fortune on it. So, I have to keep up with such petty managerial aspects until I can find someone trustworthy enough to shove it off onto.

Oh, now there is an idea.

I need a personal assistant, and Fowler Incorporated could use a good business manager. Both of these things were supposed to be Bart’s jobs, but I made the mistake of giving him far too much technical knowledge. I need him to create things of wonder for me, not worry about whether or not the troops are eating enough or if I am out of those premade frozen daiquiris again. No, I can hire another hand for that. But who? I think it might be time to ring a few temp agencies. Try some folks out for size, as it were. And if they don’t work out, I can always feed them to the troops. What? You try feeding a few thousand minions on a budget. Just because I am rich doesn’t mean I’m not frugal. How do you think I got so rich?

I mean besides killing my parents and cashing in their insurance policies.

Note to self: Have Bart find the number for that villain temp agency, Temporary Insanity.

I guess this brings another entry to a close. I need to go visit Dr. Jackson in intensive care so I can formally apologize for almost killing him. I hear he is hanging onto his life by a thread, but he lost the eye. He literally lost it. Bart had Jackson hang onto his own eye, and on the way to the medical unit, the doc dropped it and it bounced away. The minions have been searching frantically for it, but I suspect if they find it they will just eat the damned thing. No matter. Bart can fit Jackson with a better eye. I for one am impressed that the doc survived the thrashing I gave him. Perhaps I have finally found a therapist that can match my sadism.

I wonder if he’s married.

Until next time,


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