Not So Model Home - By David James Page 0,49

of their asshole. I looked at the sender and surprise! It was none other than my asshole client (pun intended) Vicktor Teller. The message under his unbleached anus:

You can kiss this good-bye, bitch. I’ll get someone else to sell my house!!!!

I was three inches from completely snapping. You read about housewives taking all they can, calmly hitting their husbands with a frying pan, then sitting down to watch the afternoon soaps. I was just about to go there.

The storm had not yet passed, however. Aleksei roared back to life again. Taking off in yet another direction.

“Oh, I got a piece of gossip. Hot, hot, hot, hot, hot . . . sizzin’ hot fuggin hot. Hot. You ne’er guess who I zaw kissing here in the house! I was shocked. No, diz-gust-ted,” he said, sticking his finger down his throat in a mock vomiting gesture.

Unfortunately, Aleksei’s motor skills were sorely lacking and he went a little too far down the pipe, erupting in a shower of vomit that spewed out of his mouth in a Niagara of wine and . . . other things I don’t care to mention, or identify. Unfortunately, Aleksei had some motor skills left: He hit me squarely from across the table with pinpoint accuracy.

“THAT’S IT!” I shrieked like a banshee, composing myself only to the point of being able to force words out through my clenched teeth. “I am so sick of all this horseshit! I can’t take it anymore. I agree with Lance. I’m sick of the way you guys are sucking up to Ian for his money when most of you couldn’t care less about him! All this bitching and moaning, and your eating disorders, your enemas to avoid going to the toilet like poorer people, and going on and on about stuff that’s so stupid and shallow, it wouldn’t even make it into the dialogue of a Quentin Tarantino movie! Bleaching your assholes, plucking your pubes, and now, I learn, acting like babies with pacifiers, cross-dressing, wearing pig masks, and getting spanked so you can’t even sit on your lily-white assholes!”

Aurora tried to intervene by reaching up and putting a hand on my shoulder, but I wasn’t finished.

“I’m not finished with all of you yet . . .” I continued, as David and Marcus tried to leave the room. “. . . and that means you too. I’ve listened to all of you for long enough, so now you can stand here until I’ve said what I need to say. I have had it up to here with everything”—I held my level hand to my forehead, then lowered it to my navel and looked straight at Marcus—“and I’ve had it up to here with you! So you’re short and your balls have shrunk to the size of marbles because you’re juicing all the time to make up for the fact that you’re short. So what! The other guys make fun of you! Boo hoo. People say I look like someone punched Kathleen Turner in the nose. So what?!”

Several of the guys muttered that they finally figured out whom I reminded them of.

“Since we’re making the rounds, David, I like you, but you’ve got the empathy of an Auschwitz commandant, and you need to find one personality with one look and stick to it. Gilles, you have an amazing butt and a huge cock, and that’s about it. You have none of the wit, the charm, or the sophistication of the people of Paris. I said it at the beginning and I still stand by my original proclamation: You’re just cheap, gold-digging Eurotrash. Drake, you’re another one I’m disappointed in. You’re smart, handsome, and yet you run around Ian’s estate picking up the shit his dogs leave all over the yard. And now I learn you perhaps earn your keep by beating up Ian. I as much as any of you would like to beat up Ian, but, Drake, you’re wasting your life being stuck here because Ian pays you for it. Go out, get a real job. Yeah, it might not pay as much, but at least you won’t have to put up with anyone else’s shit. Darryn? You I like. You’re perfect. Now for Ian. I can’t believe that a man who created this huge empire can be so petty. You have guys followed, you pit the guys against each other, and you don’t seem to care that you had sex with your son. You need to grow up . . .