Picture: From the Sir Charles Grandiose Archives

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February 18, 2002

Ones readers know well that one is not a credulous man. One did not buy internet start-ups. One does not invest in one's nephew's stage extravaganzas. Nor does not ordinarily hold truck with the usual Popish rituals such as "The Feast of St. Veronica" and "Easter Vigil" or "Labor Day."

One makes an exception for the season of Lent. It is a holy time of sacrifice. What, if not sacrifice, is civilization at its finest based upon? Have not generations upon generations of our forefathers sacrified sweat, toil, and tears so that we as a race might advance? Have not our own mothers and fathers sacrificed so that we, their children, could profit? Why, one's own mater once missed a meeting of the Fishampton Women's Flower Arranging and Taxidermy Society so that she could attend one's caning at the Buckingham School for Wealthy Effeminate Boys.

Sacrifice is good for the soul. That is the motto of Sir Charles Grandiose.

It is for that reason alone that one respects the intent of the season of Lent. What better way to celebrate this holiest of seasons than, as many of one's readers do, make sacrifices of one's own? Some give up chocolate. Some give up meat on Fridays. Impressive as these feats may be, they lack originality. They lack introspection.

One has, for example, "dug deep," as it were, inside one's own soul to discover how one can express one's appreciation of sacrifice. With some modesty, one might safely say one has thought up quite the list for oneself.

What One Is Giving Up For Lent
By Sir Charles Grandiose

1. Pork rinds.
2. Constrictive foundation garments.
3. Listening to long-playing vinyl albums by the "Spice Girls".
4. Exercise.
5. Dieting.
6. Daily baths.
7. Bronco riding.
8. Scaling Mount Everest unaided.
9. The Lady Felicia's jams, pottages, marmalades, and chutneys.
10. All donations to charity.

Oh, how that last item hurts. Cuts to the quick, it does. But it must be done, one tells oneself as one puts the cash back into one's vault. It must be done.

The servants of Blandsdown have been joyfully following one's own example, after one mandated they sacrifice their wages for the forty-night holiday. Ah readers. You should all see the looks on their faces.

For another week one remains the most holy baronet one's correspondents know,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Helena writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I would like to tell you that you have the most handsome sons ever. I love Williams smile and Harry's eyes!!!

I would like to ask you if they have a girlfriend!!!

It's not that I'm interested on them because I'm not, I only think they're very cute. And even if I was interested on them I would never have a chance with them, because I'm from Madeira Island in Portugal and I'll never have the chance of meeting them even when I go to England and I've been there twice and I've been to Wales once. I just want to know if they have a girlfriend for the curiosity!!

Helena Ferreira

P.S. I admire them a lot and I just hope they have the life they deserve, a life full of happiness and all the good things in the world and I wish the same to you!!!

Sir Charles replies:

Helena, Helena, Helena,

Such a simple girl, aren't you? The kind of girl who cuts out photographs of Prince William and Prince Harry and pastes them into her scrapbook. The kind of girl who drinks chocolate "malts" and sings along to Kylie Minogue. The kind of girl who, after that unfortunate kick in the head by a stubborn cow, has the drool wiped from her chin thrice daily by the attendants in the Home for the Young and Brain-Dead.

How truly kind of you to pen such a letter to oneself.

Don't do it ever again

Cross and cross-eyed, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Ann writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

Oh, boo-hoo-hoo! What's a girl to do?

All of my Christmas cards were marked "return to sender" this year, and to top it off, my boyfriend Nigel swore up and down that he'd mailed me a dozen presents, but I never got a one. He said he printed my name in big letters so I couldn't miss them. And then he tried to tell me that he'd been arrested and that's why he didn't come see me on Christmas.

Should I believe him, Sir Charles? And if he's telling the truth, where are my presents? It's February already!

Ann Thrax

Sir Charles replies:

My dear Miss Thrax,

One really must apologize for the delay in responding to your letter. It would appear that on opening the envelope, one's secretary was covered with a white powder that billowed forth from your letter. No worries. Once the lad dusted himself off and gave himself a good rub-down with a bit of spit on his handkerchief, he was looking much as normal. If, that is, the word 'normal' can be applied to the dreggiest dreg of humanity it is one's misfortune to employ.

The obvious solution to your problem, miss, is to visit Nigel. March right up to the front desk of his apartment building and announce loudly, "Tell Nigel that Ann Thrax is in the building."

One suspects the correspondent will receive quite the response.

Coughing slightly, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Jillian writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I have met a man that I am very attracted to and we seem to have a lot in common. We have been dating casually for a few months now. I like being with him a lot and would like for the relationship to go one step further.

The problem is, he cannot kiss! Period. I like to kiss and if I cannot find a nice way to either suggest or show him an alternative way I am afraid I will have to draw a close to this otherwise promising relationship. Any help you could give would be greatly appreciated.

FYI: I am 48 and he is 50


Sir Charles replies:

Wanton Jade,

Upon perusing your letter . . . or more accurately put, your torrid missive of libidinous braggadocio . . . one had been assuming that by 'one step further,' you of course implied marriage. For that, and that alone, is the only step a woman should take after the coy glance, the gently-held (but gloved) hand, or any of the early stages of courtship.

But when you followed with the lascivious declaration of your willingness--nay, enjoyment!--of the common habit of pressing lips together with a member of the opposite sex. . . . Well, one was quite horrified. One had to mop a bead of perspiration from one's brow. Does not the correspondent know that such behaviors lead to not only germs, but the disease-laden parasite known as the 'cooty'?

Wondering how the human race survives, sometimes, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

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