Humans are blithering idiots and I live with their king! All hail, Skeeter, King of the Tards, the Doofi and all of the Ignorami.
To begin...
Since I have been here, Skeeter has had health problems. This that and the other thing has always been there, like a great miasma, floating throughout the apartment, his relationships with everyone and, especially, his ties to me. He may be a king, you see, but I was born emperor and he owes me my due. The problem? He had made another his liege and this false empress misused his trust and fealty for years. She paid virtually no attention to him but he, nevertheless, submitted to all her decisions about his health which meant he had offered her highness his very life. And worse, like all true Doofi, he had done this virtually without question.
When his doctor decided, through a platoon of intermediaries (an assistant, an assistant to the assistant, receptionists and various nurses) that he was to "try" a treatment, it was tried. And some of these were fucking doozies! I know! I was there and heard the screaming especially, once, when liquid acid was dripped into open wounds and this without a pain-killer (for the empress had decreed over-the-counter painkillers would do).
The source of his problems—an infection—was known but not the source of that infection and twice her Royal Highness was asked by a nurse to investigate, by a scan, if there might not be an easily identifiable something that might, easily, be taken out and perhaps cure the problem. But no...the Empress refused and Skeeter, Lord of The Ultra-Maroons, bowed before her even then. She sent him to a plastic surgeon. The plastic surgeon, like the Empress, also treated Skeeter like shit and with utter disrespect.
Finally Skeeter rebelled and like all rebels was slapped down by the queen and all was dark and despair.
Until today. He went to a plastic surgeon not ruled by the Dark Empress. He was told, by the queen and her peons, that nothing would be different with another surgeon. He would wait for hours in a waiting room despite having an appointment and it would end up the same way. In fact, he probably wouldn't even get to see the new surgeon because the Queen—Empress of Cunts and Fuckknucles—refused to sign the consultation papers needed in this land to change doctors.
He went for a noon meeting and by 12:45 he was home and Boo-Boo and I knew all was lost.
But no...within five minutes of his arrival at the new surgeon's office, Skeet had seen a resident, been questioned, and minutes later saw the surgeon. The surgeon said what everyone knew: you don't treat an infection of unknown origin with surgery. He immediately ordered a scan and that was that.
I don't know exactly how Skeeter feels but I'll tell you how I feel: for the misery the Dark Empress caused in this household and how long it went and how close I came to losing my slave (even having to intervene, for fuckssake), I command that she be exiled...
Exiled to a land which befits her: one of bitter, menopausal crones whose faces are so lifted by their beloved plastic surgeons that they can no longer show joy without their ears flying off. In this land she will be made to wander until she has performed acts of compassion and learns to empathize with her subjects and where she does not perform acts of cruel professional log-rolling, sending her subjects off to people as cold and heartless as she simply because she wishes to wash her hands of a difficult case.
As for King Skeeter, I command that he, and those as jelly-spined as him, stop sucking the cocks and eating the shit of they who call themselves doctors and, instead, enter into alliances with these so-called healers and participate in their own cures.
They must, instead, suck the cocks and eat the shit of their true masters. All hail Léo, the One and Only, King of all the Dogs and all animals less noble. (Including, of course, the lowly and stupid humans.)
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