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I Swear to God, If I Hear “Be Our Guest” In This Castle One More Time I’m Going To Kill Something

Damn it, Lumière. Every single time we have guests over you sing that song. EVERY SINGLE TIME.

It was cute back when you were a talking candelabra, and it made me feel special and welcome and all that. But those were different circumstances. It was, what, fifteen years ago? When did the wardrobe go to rehab? It was around then.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that you sang it for every person who walked through our castle’s doors. You sang it yesterday when the mailman rang the doorbell. You sang it when a dog barked outside. You sang it when Mrs. Potts returned from visiting Chip in jail.

My friends Simone and Yvette felt so uncomfortable when you started up at our afternoon get-together of Bloody Marys. But you wouldn’t notice that, would you? You were just leaping around, shrieking, “Put our service to the test!”

Then you demanded that Yvette put her napkin round her neck, you called her “cherie,” and you vaguely hinted that you’d “provide the rest,” which sounds pretty damn suggestive.

This is not how a serving staff is supposed to behave. I recognize that we live in changing times, and I accept that the norms of master-servant relationships are changing—I consider myself a progressive—but I had thought that there would be at least some sort of minimal decorum and composure for maids and butlers. True, when I first met you and your colleagues I thought that your behavior was normal. But I was young and uneducated, and since then I’ve watched Downton Abbey.

Sometimes I wish you would turn back into dancing cutlery.

In all the years I’ve lived here, I have only been provided identical dinners of beef ragout, cheese soufflé, pie, and pudding en flambé. You must be buying in bulk, and although I commend your cost-consciousness given the Beast and my limited income from his dwindling land holdings, sometimes I just want pizza.

These days, if I am craving pizza, I have to walk down our dirt path into the village, where everyone is still angry with me over the Gaston situation, and go to the pizzeria myself. That is many, many kilometers away, and depending on the weather and how many detours I have to take to avoid the ravenous pack of wolves that roams the forest, I sometimes won’t arrive until the next morning. Then I have to wait until the pizzeria opens at noon, sitting outside on a park bench in my dirty clothes while people point at me and whisper things like “She has two-dozen servants but she has to get her own pizza?” and “She looks like the wolves have been chasing her for hours!”

Don’t you dare ask why I don’t just order the pizza delivered, because I know you know the answer. Let me give you a hint: it’s a three-word musical extravaganza about hospitality, and it’s your fault.


 

Written by Matthew Disler

Matthew Disler

Matthew Disler, like some species of weakling migratory birds or evolutionarily flawed butterflies, has lived in New York; Richmond, Virginia; Boston; and New York again. His food allergies are the bane of all Vietnamese restaurants, and his work has appeared in McSweeney’s and CAFE, among other sites.

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