July 30, 2001
Sir Charles Grandiose presents
Little Miss Muffet
Ding Dong Det!
Old Queen Liz
Sir Roger Hubbard
There was a crooked man
Higglety, Pigglety, Martha Stewart
I turn to you at this time for the hope that you might be able to provide to me a gem of wisdom similar to those which you have so long and thoughtfully scattered from your magnificent being that indeed resemble the very stars in the heavens. I have been a long and devoted reader (the number of which are so numerous, one would venture to say, that if they were each a grain of wheat the n'er ending issue of world hunger would be shortly remedied) of your inspired advice but have never before felt myself worthy of asking to partake of it myself. I have by my birth two strikes against me in the eyes of such nobility as yourself, being not only of the working class but also hailing from that pit of degradation and idiocy known most frequently as America. I have been blessed thrice in the past few years, as I was blossoming into an age wherein my mind would move forward from the faces of childhood, to enrich my mind with a glimpses of that fair land of England. A choice and sweet place where I have spent much time visiting my friendly and caring relatives. I hope that these small visits to your blissful land will begin to convince you that I have gained some reason to elevate myself to your notice, and be bestowed with your excellent words.
As I know, being as aforementioned an avid reader of your illustrious page, how you dislike those people who would go on and on without making a point or even remaining on one subject so I shall not keep you in suspense as to the object of my missive but rather tell all so that I might receive a helpful response, as I'm in no doubt you are quite capable of achieving. One perhaps wonders if indeed your thoughts might not be too erudite for one such as I, but I overcome all reservations to address you candidly and openly as the reverence and awe you inspire allows me to do.
My beloved, who is otherwise beyond reproach and perhaps nearly approaching the level of your greatness, has recently taken up the peculiar hobby of gardening. I myself confess to be quite intimate with the process, and can usually go at it for lengthy periods of time, but I do realize that there are limits. My love upon discovering this secret passion has endeavored to become as avid a gardener as myself, and has in fact succeeded brilliantly, if not too brilliantly. We have enjoyed so many blissful hours side by side working with our hands the rich earth in the beds, relishing the simple pleasures which cannot be otherwise obtained, O joy! My quandary, though, comes in the fact that my dear love has become far too attached to planting. Indeed, all he seems to wish is to plant seeds the entire day long, and even into the night. This has gotten quite out of hand, as he has all but worn me out with his unflagging attempts to be ever planting. When One reminds him that it is not an appropriate time to be planting, seasons having their due course and such, he waves my protests aside and proceeds to plant with almost greater passion and vigor than before.
Please, O wise and beneficent Sir Charles! Can you somehow help me out of my position?
A postscript: I wished to send this missive by way of a wax-sealed hand delivered envelope, but sadly here in the 'states' such refinements are difficult to come by.
Sir Charles replies:
One can relieve your position immediately. Off your knees, dear girl. You have been on all fours long enough.
For centuries untold has it been the habit of men to plant seeds whenever and wherever possible. Call it instinct, if you must, but has not the human race been sustained for time immemorial through a man's desire to spread seeds and a woman's instinct to grasp the sturdy roots and harvest what they may?
Still, one's correspondent may be relieved to know that it is not necessary to share all your love's hobbies. It is entirely possible, of course, that your beloved may move on to a different garden, but a bit of diplomacy, and a willingness to help him fertilize every now and again should keep him happy.
With mulch wishes, one remains,
Missiz Thiggit writes:
Wot's them Britney Spears? Ah keeps 'earin' about it . . . izzit some sort of new esparrigus? Luv to 'now wot yew think uvvit . . . afore ah tries it out in me kitchin.
Sir Charles replies:
My dear Mrs. Thiggit,
While one cannot say with certainty that one has enjoyed the new Britney Spears, though they sound quite patriotic in a misspelt sort of way, one did the other evening at dinner, after a stiff Gin Ricky Martin, take an asparagus spear in one's fingers and found it to be quite overblown, wilted, bitter, and lacking substance. Perhaps it was the variety of which you speak?
Calling in the Spice Girls for a bit of pepper, one remains,
Hey Sir Chuckalot,
What up?! (Hmmmm."Sir Chuckalot" sounds like a Rap group guy doncha think? Kewl!). It's the fabulous Pumpy here from "Pumpy and DaBoyz" and here is our problem.
We's a pop group with a "bad tude, man" ;-0 but we want to appeal to a more classified audience if you can get down with what I'm say'in! :-0 So we want to perform some of your British type upper crusty songs but with a "homeys inna hood" kinda bent, ya dig?! Like we'd do "Rule Brittania, Pomp and Circumstance" and maybe even "Knees Up Mother Brown" but in our own unique brand of bad -ss, shuck and jive, hip hop thingy. Do you think we're onto something here Sir C-Alot?! :-0
Sir Charles replies:
A point of syntax. One does not think you are onto anything. However, one would not be at all surprised if the correspondent was on something.
What is that substance that has wreaked so much havoc across the ocean in the Americas? Oh yes. 'Crack,' one believes they call it. Though for the life of one, one cannot comprehend how they manage to separate it from the plumbers.
Shaking his head, one remains,