Picture: From the Sir Charles Grandiose Archives

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July 11, 1997

Picture: The Scientific Method As one walked the fields around Blandsdown this week, under the clear dark summer night skies, one reflected upon the stars. One has always been fond of the stars, you know. In a purely scientific sense, of course. One is not one of those pseudo-scientific 'astronomers' who make 'star charts' and fatuously blather on about what 'constipation' under which one was born. No, one is a strict, scientific astrologist, who depends upon telescopes, umpirical observations, and the Scientific Method.

One often hears reflections upon the stars from one's readers. (And one has it upon the greatest of authorities that one's readers are so many in number that were they each a single toothpick, one could build from them and several pots of glue a full-sized replica of the famed Taj Mahal and still have enough raw material left over for a good-sized outdoors privy. But one would never do such a thing, as one finds toothpicks to be vulgar.) "Sir Charles," they write one. "Do you not get depressed, gazing at the infinity of the night sky? Looking out and out and out into empty space, knowing that it spreads unto infinity, and knowing that in the cosmic scheme of things, you are but a speck, an atom, less than a mote of dust in the universe's eye? Does it not frighten you, to know that our lifespans are less than a blink of the eye, in the face of this massive eternity?"

And one replies: Bosh.

In one's scientific studies, one has made several discoveries. One will announce them here, in this forum, with publication of several scientific papers to follow, eventually, once one feels like writing them. And these discoveries should hearten those who are discouraged in the face of eternity, for they reduce it to a finite, contemplatable lump. And who among us would not prefer a simple cup of tea, perhaps with a slice of lemon, to an ocean's worth of murky brew in which heaven-knows-who has spent a penny?

Without further ado, then:

1) The notion that the universe is endless is perpetuated by untitled scientists for their own evil ends, namely, the extortion of monies from their governments. "There's so much out there!" they cry, as Presidents and Queens shovel money into their outstretched pockets. "We'll never finish studying it all!" Utter rubbish. The universe ends several miles out on a nicely lacquered surface. They merely want you to believe in light-years and other such nonsense.

2) The concept of 'infinity' is also nonsense. The highest number that exists is 42,378,229,100,725,084. "But Sir Charles!" one hears the cry. "Would not 42,378,229,100,725,085 be next?" The answer is a simple negative. One starts over, after that.

3) Most startling of all, one has come to the indisputable scientific conclusion that the universe revolves around oneself. One realizes, of course, the great responsibility that comes with this position. Why, if one were inadvertently to move too quickly, one might fling a few rainforests or tropical islands off into space. (Would that one could ensure it happened to Las Vegas or 'Graceland.')

Walking slowly to the liquor cabinet, one remains for yet another week,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Picture: One's Mother-in-Law in a Fine Lather

Mr Whipple writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I thought you'd sympathize with this one. My wife's mother, the old battle-ax, is coming to live with us. Her husband had the sense to go belly-up during a swimming pool accident. Tired of hearing that harpy's voice day after day, I shouldn't imagine. Thought I'd take a tip or two from you and get rid of her the same way you got rid of that mother-in-law of yours, that old lemon-sucking, fire-breathing, garlic-breathed, pock-faced, nose-plugged, smelly, buttock-scratching, flea-ridden, mangy mutt called Agatha Windover-Midden.

So thanks for the help!

Mr Whipple

Sir Charles replies:


How incredibly rude. How presumptuous! How utterly, utterly repellant!

For the record, one must state that she is referred to as that old lemon-sucking, fire-breathing, garlic-breathed, pock-faced, nose-plugged, smelly, buttock-scratching, flea-ridden, mangy mutt called Augusta Windover-Midden.

Always glad to set the ignorant onto the Path of Knowledge, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Mr Day writes:

Sir Charles,

I need your help. Even though my friends say I'm as funny as a dead donky, I know I am the funniest person on the face of the earth! I need to know how to get to the top. I need an agent, I need connections, I just need people!

Yours truly,
Mr Day

Sir Charles replies:

Dear lad,

As funny as a dead donkey? Your acquaintances are certainly not justified so in saying!

Unless, of course, they are referring to a particularly putrid, pustulant, maggot-ridden dead donkey picked over by vultures under the unforgiving glare of a very hot sun.

Helpfully, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Lord Wesley writes:

Picture: Hey-ah, Batter Up! Sir Charles,

Although I have never heard you speak of it, I am certain that you belong to a country club or other elite athletic organisation. I have belonged to the finest of our land's clubs, the Young Men's Christian Association, but now that I have come of age, I wish to join a more mature club, as befitting a noble.

I have gained membership to the extremely exclusive St. Vincent's Center for Elite Athletics, but I am now faced with a dilemma. For an additional fee, I may be an Honor Member, which allows me to avoid showering, changing, snapping towels, and otherwise being nude with men who have not paid the fee; that is, the Honor members have a separate, though not really different, locker room.

My question: Should I pay for the Honor status, even though those with Honor memberships, in general, play golf in a much more flaccid manner? And the non-Honor members seem to have significantly larger clubs, and are more virile in their games. So do I attempt to improve my score, or my social position?

Waiting patiently for your advice, I remain
Lord Wesley of Bernferdshire

Sir Charles replies:

Lord Wesley,

One has seen you handle your club and balls. The Honor Membership should do you nicely.

Frankly, old chap, one thinks you'd just better stick to badminton. One has obtained much more amusement watching you dodge a shuttlecock, Wesley, my man.

Helpfully, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

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