I was watching a stupid TV show when His Royal Highness came home from business school with his tennis racket strapped to his back. Trying to sound, like, a little too friendly, he spat out: “So? What’s on the menu for tonight?” “Nothing,” I said, continuing to repolish my fingernails with a slightly classier color. “Tonight, I’m taking my friend Franck to a restaurant.” “Reeeeeeeeeally?” He said, in that upper-crusty way he always spoke, as though he had marbles in his mouth. “And why does he deserve that honor?” “We have something to celebrate.” “Do you? And might I ask whaaaaat, if it’s not too nosy?” “The prospect of no longer seeing your filthy hypocritical face, you little asshole.” “Oh! What luuuuuuck!” (Okay, fine, as I was too chicken, instead I said: “It’s a surprise.”) Shit . . .
