I chafe under these tight classroom conditions. Do you hear me, peasants? This tightness causes me much chafing! Graaaaaah!
My techno-glamour does not help me to squeeze into this tight desk, my large and magnificent fingers struggle to grasp a pencil, and now I must learn about mundane human things, like how some of them do not consume the produce of animals and subsist on grains. Grains?? Were their kind found to exist in my vast interstellar empire, they would be publically vaporised live on the Galaxy-Wide Morning Show, to warn all peasants of their folly.
Now I must contend with conveyancing lawyers. No, not in a gladiatorial ring, although that would make for a wonderful show. No, our assignment is to go out and talk to conveyancers about…housing. I, an intergalactic warlord and emperor of the known cosmos, must ask about the possibility of property transfers, as if the known universe did NOT belong under my iron fist. These classes have been one such humiliation after another, and if my ship were functioning properly (i.e. not a pile of wreckage buried underneath a glacier) I would simply leave. Also…our teacher is…well, she…
Blartax does not admit fear, but if he did, hypothetically, then that being would, in theory, scare him more than anything in the cosmos. But that’s all speculation.
Anyway, that notwithstanding, I should get on with my assignment. Conveyancers…exist. I simply must use Earth currency to procure a home, which is where the services of conveyancing people comes in. Currently I live in the sewers, but perhaps when my retinue finally track my distress beacon, it’s better that they find me in some kind of dwelling. Maybe one in…Richmond. Conveyancers there must be the finest! ‘Rich’ is in the name.
Yes, my dwelling shall be in the great Mond of Rich. It will do, for now.
-Blartax