As the Duchess of Bluffingham was sitting by her window one hot and sultry day, she noticed one of the gardeners working in the yard and taking his shirt off. She thought to herself, “Oo wow yoiks mm hots,”  leaned out the window, and said; “Yoo hoo, Mr. Gardner, would you like a spot of iced tea?” “Is that you your Highness? Did you say you bought a nice tree and would I like it? By the way, you can call me Mr. Shnuckerpuss,” said he, rather surprised that she lowered herself to speak to one of the gardeners. “Come on inside, Mr. Shuckshmuch, or whatever your name is.”

As the butler opened the door, he asked him what he was here for. He said, “Her Ladyship shot a nice flea or something like that. I guess she wanted me to come in and bury it or whatever.”

As he entered her bedroom, she had her shoes off. “Before we have a spot of tea, would you massage my feet, Mr. Suckmush?” “Oh yes Your Ladship. I shall call the masseuse right away for you. Is that all Milady?” “No! don’t call her. Would you rub some oil on my thighs? They are very sore.” “Then I shall call the doctor for you, Madam.”

“Put your shirt back on and get the hell out of here!” said the enraged Duchess of Bluffingham. "Go home you *^@%#(^ stupid idiot and don’t ever come back. On the way out, send the butler up here."  “What for?,” said he. “I thought you wanted me to bury the nice flea that you shot, your Ladyship.” “You’re fired! Just go home and don’t come back,”  said she. “Maybe I was supposed to call the doctor without her Ladyship asking,” he thought. “I guess I’ll have to look for another job.”