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March 21, 1997

One is not an excitable fellow. One's readers (and one has it upon the greatest of authorities that they are so numerous that were one to offend a thousand a day, one would still have a readership until May fourteenth of the year three thousand, four hundred, and thirty-seven . . . but the likelihood of such is slim, as one makes it a point never, ever, to offend, except perhaps those damnable garlicky Frenchies) know that one makes it a policy never to display emotion. 'Tis unhealthy, and unseemly. But so overwhelming was the response to one's jubilee contest, that one was forced--yes, forced--to allow the corners of one's lips to travel upwards, for a brief instant. But on to the entries! So many were they, that one fears one will have to spend several weeks sharing the best. Our contestants were asked to compete in three categories. The first, the Metaphor was perhaps the easiest, and one received many, many choice responses. One prints the best below. One asked one's readers to complete the following phrase: One has it upon the greatest of authorities that one's readers, so numerous . . . . . . that were they sperm cells, surely every egg in the ovary would be fertilized! (submitted by Master E. Peterson) . . . that were each to attempt to register a network the remaining supply of IP addresses would be exhausted before St. Swithin's Day of this year. (submitted by Mr. R. Netzlof) . . . that should they each simultaneously send a get-well card to Bill Cl--ton, the postal service would be forced to retain every man, woman, and child in the States to dispense the mail. (submitted by Miss L. Kinney; one notes that Miss Kinney is one of one's Official Minions, and has been studying well) . . . as to approximate the life expectancy of the sun, were it to be expressed in seconds. (submitted by Still Enlightened Among Heathens) Are these not indeed choice turns of phrase? One is slightly jealous that one did not think of them oneself. But then, one would have, eventually. One especially praises Mr. Netzlof for the inclusion of St. Swithin's Day, always one of one's particular favorites, and such a nice touch. One singles out two metaphors in particular, however. The first, one appreciated for its thoroughness. The second . . . well, one fears one always has a soft spot for the word 'knickers.' . . . that should they be counted by arranging the contents of several dominoes factories (a family member not to be mentioned at the dinner table or elsewhere was once rumoured to be proprietor of such an institution) into a large circumference, they would fairly encircle much of the known empire, and, what is more, should all the dominoes be toppled from one source domino being pushed, such an event would get the organiser a place in the Gynyess Booke of Olde Worlde discs, as I believe it is called. (submitted by Mr. Nash) . . . that if each were to cast a single pebble into the Thames, all of London would be so inundated by the resultant flood that the royal family would have to quickly scurry to the very top floor of Buckingham Palace lest they wet their knickers. (submitted by Miss Mushko) One congratulates all one's winners for their marvellous, marvellous skills in describing the width and breadth of one's readership (which indeed, is so wide and broad that were it a woman, her proportions would be so ample that . . . ah, but one can only imagine). Next week, one will assay the results of the letters to Eunice, Duchess of Crabbe. One is still accepting entries. With hearty congratulations to these shining stars of one's following, one remains for another week, Sir Charles Grandiose A Friend writes: Dear Fancy-Schmantzy Sir Charles Grandiose, So where do you get off, like, I mean taking cheap shots at Martha Stewart? OK, so maybe decorating the Eyeful Tower with pipe cleaners and old corsets or whatever was not so hot but if you was to pay attention and not spend so much time thinking up smarty-pants things to say, maybe you'd learn a thing or two I'll bet. Like maybe that ballroom at Bland's Dune wouldn't be so crusty and you'd get along better with your neighbors and all. You may be a baronette or something, but wasn't old king James a Stewart? And so where do you get off badmouthing somebody that could be one of his grandkids or something. Yeah, where? A Friend in Pennsylvania Sir Charles replies: Dear Friend, Wasn't it a great shock, when you woke up this morning, to discover that your brains had leaked out and ruined your Mighty Muffin Power Rangers bed linens? One is truly concerned. Noting that a baronet is not the same as a kitchenette, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Anonymous leader of a great nation writes: Dear Sir Charles, I beg your help in this most grave affair of state. My status as Prime Minister of an important nation necessitates that I remain anonymous. I know that I can depend on you to keep my identity secret, and I have full confidence in your wise advice. My predicament is this: before Spring is out, my party must face elections. Early polls suggest that among the many-headed rabble, our popularity is slightly below that of the Raving Monster Loony party, and that the chances of retaining our hold in Parliament are slight. The result would be the election of a Labour government -- a situation which you surely agree is of gravest peril for all right-thinking men of this great land. I have turned to history to inform me of my possible options. I have narrowed my choices down to one of these two strategies: 1) That of my predecessor: wage a small, winnable war against a dictatorship with a poorly equipped army. Upon victory, I could ride into office upon the surge of patriotism in the hearts of my countrymen. While this might work, which country should I attack? 2) That of Oliver Cromwell: behead the sovereign and use military force to ensure that my party remains ascendant. Although somewhat risky, the advantage over the other strategy is that, should I win, I could expect to retain my post for life. (This strategy also has the interesting side effect that those members of the nobility who are ahead of your daughter in line for the throne might unfortunately lose their lives, or flee to France.) Your counsel is deeply appreciated. With deepest regards, J.M. (MP) P.M. Sir Charles replies: My good fellow, Dear me, how one's ears are ringing. A scant moment ago, young Penelope Windsor-Smythe (who is, as you might know, ninetieth in line for the throne) was gracefully poised over one's right shoulder. But while one was perusing the correspondent's missive, she suddenly called out 'Number Two!' One thought she was providing an answer to your dilemma, but as she immediately turned and ran in the direction of the privy, one is now not so sure. Despite a few obvious attractions, one finds one cannot advocate the path of Oliver Cromwell, fanatic enthusiast he was. Besides, the vision of the Prince of Wales' head spinning on the ground, like a top with enormous ears, quite unsettles one. So that would leave the invasion, it seems. France seems hardly worth the effort, and as for Spain--well, the food would give the correspondent that curious ailment known as Montezoopa's Revenge. Sweden would be a good choice, if only to keep the country from producing any more of the long playing stereophonic discs from that ABBA group one's secretary that is slowly dissolving what little brain is left in the thick-shelled cranium of one's secretary. On the whole, one suggests Belgium, if only for the chocolates alone. Hoping the correspondent will let one know how it goes, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Troubled writes: Dear Lady Felicia, I have been dating this guy now for a couple of months and he is very sweet to me and he treats me well. However he says real men don't cuddle and he would never hold my hand in public or tell any one we are going out. Anyway he lost his license for DWI so I have been trying to help him as much as I can. He is 26 I am 17. I know it is a major age difference but when we first stated dating he told me he was 23 and then I fell for him then he told me the truth. Anyway the first day he lost it he told me not to tell anyone. Because of this I had to lie to two of my closest friends. My friend at the same time caught me in the lie so I told him the truth. Last night the guy I was dating found out I had told him and blew up at me. He was yelling at me and calling me every name you could think of. My problem is was it wrong to tell my friend the truth after I was under the impression that I could tell people? Troubled The Lady Felicia replies: My dear girl, You should be absolutely thrilled that your beloved has lost his license for DWI. Now that he is no longer a Dumb Waiter Inspector, he can turn his attentions to a profession that holds more status and prestige. My sources at the Fishampton Legal Lending Library assure me that the road to a career as a Barrister (a fine choice for the commoner who finds it essential to work for a living) requires many years of hard study before coming to fruition. By that time, my dear, your 'guy' as you so charmingly call him, will be nearing 40, you will be pushing 30, and no loose tongues will be able to cast aspersions on your matrimonial aspirations. Until that time, one recommends knitting. Why, just think of all the socks you can make. Serenely, one remains, Lady Felicia Grandiose