Curdled Milk

I’m most disturbed -yet entertained- by a night clerk here at my abode. His pants are perfectly creased. The tassels on his shoes are flawless. His brow is permanently furrowed. He is sardonically dry. He is an imperialistic elitist. He speaks in monotone. He locks the pool at night. He is a bad boy, on the rise. He is lord over his domain and laughs at his subjects behind their backs. He is pitty pat. I bet his clothes hangers are equidistant. I bet no food ever touches any other on his plate. I bet his medicines are categorically organized and alphabetized. His cat must have seizures. His mother a closet speed freak. His dad had to have a speech impediment that mysteriously began when the night clerk was 4 years old. He secretly craves persimmons and ranch dip. He sticks an Oral B toothbrush up his ass when he goes to the grocery market.
I think I smell tofu.