My maid was crying.
Normally, I try not to get involved in the lower caste's personal affairs, such as: Are they happy? Are they healthy? Are we paying them enough? But I couldn't ignore her as she was plucking my nose hairs at the time.
Growing old is not pretty, my friends.
"Why are you crying, my dear?" I asked her, fully intending to ignore her response and think of something pleasant, such as sassafras.
"I was at a bar," she blubbered, "and a handsome young man asked me if I wanted a drink. 'Sure,' I told him. 'I'm a good sport.' After a few drinks, he said, 'Want to go back to my place?' 'Sure,' I told him. 'I'm a good sport.' So we went to his place and had some more to drink. 'Let's go into the bedroom,' he suggested. 'Sure,' I told him. 'I'm a good sport.'"
She put her face in the cup of her hands, and wailed, "Oh, Mrs. Grey, now I'm pregnant and I think I'm going to kill myself!"
"My," Christian said, " you ARE a good sport."
