Advice from Sir Charles: October 22, 2001

October 22, 2001	Gentle readers, With a heart lightened by the fulfillment of a sense of duty, one presents yet another set of those most collectable objects, Sir Charles Grandiose Official Manners Cards. Once again one hopes that you all will discreetly print out (on an appropriately heavy linen card stock) these bon mots and tuck them away in your wallets, purses, or (heaven forfend) hatbands for those occasions in which your very sensibilities are outraged by horrid behavior, yet in which discretion requires closed lips, and a quick get-away from the parties in question. For the parent who brings their coughing child into public: For the teen-ager who speaks in nothing but slang: For the party guest who simply will not leave: Rodger writes: Deer Mister Sir Charles, I am in most umbel or ov yor most grayshis and elpful coments that yu so kindly giv in repli to thos ov us ov leser statur in our most dier strates. I rite to yu in much the saim predikamint. For sum tym now I hav notised that my dog Arry is suffrin a seveer case ov not moovin very much despite his holesum diet of sweed turnips. Pleez help me for feer ov Arrys premeture shunting of this mortal coyl. If anyone can help me it is yu Sir Charles. In most oribil turmoil, Rodger Plum Sir Charles replies: My dear Rodger, One is afraid that one must inform you that your poor dear Arry . . . er, that is, Harry, is dead. Dead, Rodger. It's a difficult concept, isn't it? Perhaps you had not noticed, during these long months in which Harry did not move, eat, or take his walk, the vultures circling overhead. Perhaps you thought those maggots were just a doggie dandruff. Poor Rodger. One wagers you thought the phrase mortal coil referred to a twisted metal bit on the back of the refrigerator. Didn't you? Dead, poor Mr. Plum. Much like the gray bits stuffed between your ears. Playing a funeral march on a miniature violin wedged between two of one's fingers, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Willie writes: Dear Sir Charles, What is your view on skinny-dipping? Cordially, Wee Willie Winkie Sir Charles replies: Willie, my lad, Preferably through a pair of binoculars. But atop the hummock overseeing the pond near the dairy maids' cottage will do. Always a man of practicality, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Musical writes: Dear Sir Charles, My kids have always considered me musically gifted, and I think they're right. Everyone who's heard me play says it's the most memorable thing they've ever witnessed. I'm still out of work though and would be grateful if you hire me for light dinner music at your mansion. I will require an extensive salary and expense account. Enclosed is a tape. I'm sure you've never heard anything like it. Can't wait for my plane tickets! Eugenia Tucker, Mrs. Sir Charles replies: Mother Tucker, How true it may be that your unique form of music is highly . . . how shall we say . . . unusual. However. Playing "The Beer Barrel Polka" on your armpit is not what one would call a gift. Not even the sort of gift one got from one's most despised Aunt on Christmas morning after all the real presents had been opened, played with, and broken. As for its suitability for the dinner table, one fears not. One is horrified to contemplate what the correspondent might do after a hearty meal of frijoles. Consigning the tape the fire at once, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose

With a heart lightened by the fulfillment of a sense of duty, one presents yet another set of those most collectable objects, Sir Charles Grandiose Official Manners Cards.

Once again one hopes that you all will discreetly print out (on an appropriately heavy linen card stock) these bon mots and tuck them away in your wallets, purses, or (heaven forfend) hatbands for those occasions in which your very sensibilities are outraged by horrid behavior, yet in which discretion requires closed lips, and a quick get-away from the parties in question.

For the parent who brings their coughing child into public:

For the teen-ager who speaks in nothing but slang:

For the party guest who simply will not leave:

Rodger writes:

I am in most umbel or ov yor most grayshis and elpful coments that yu so kindly giv in repli to thos ov us ov leser statur in our most dier strates. I rite to yu in much the saim predikamint. For sum tym now I hav notised that my dog Arry is suffrin a seveer case ov not moovin very much despite his holesum diet of sweed turnips. Pleez help me for feer ov Arrys premeture shunting of this mortal coyl. If anyone can help me it is yu Sir Charles.

Sir Charles replies:

One is afraid that one must inform you that your poor dear Arry . . . er, that is, Harry, is dead.

Dead, Rodger. It's a difficult concept, isn't it? Perhaps you had not noticed, during these long months in which Harry did not move, eat, or take his walk, the vultures circling overhead. Perhaps you thought those maggots were just a doggie dandruff. Poor Rodger. One wagers you thought the phrase mortal coil referred to a twisted metal bit on the back of the refrigerator. Didn't you?

Playing a funeral march on a miniature violin wedged between two of one's fingers, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Willie writes:

Sir Charles replies:

Preferably through a pair of binoculars. But atop the hummock overseeing the pond near the dairy maids' cottage will do.

Musical writes:

My kids have always considered me musically gifted, and I think they're right. Everyone who's heard me play says it's the most memorable thing they've ever witnessed.

I'm still out of work though and would be grateful if you hire me for light dinner music at your mansion. I will require an extensive salary and expense account. Enclosed is a tape. I'm sure you've never heard anything like it.

Sir Charles replies:

How true it may be that your unique form of music is highly . . . how shall we say . . . unusual. However. Playing "The Beer Barrel Polka" on your armpit is not what one would call a gift. Not even the sort of gift one got from one's most despised Aunt on Christmas morning after all the real presents had been opened, played with, and broken.

As for its suitability for the dinner table, one fears not. One is horrified to contemplate what the correspondent might do after a hearty meal of frijoles.