Picture: From the Sir Charles Grandiose Archives

The Library | Write to Sir Charles | Cast of Characters | Credits | This Week

August 1, 1997

The Sir Charles Association To Create A Terrific Society (SCATCATS) presents

Official Sir Charles Grandiose Manners Cards

Sanctioned by Sir Charles Grandiose himself!

Print on good quality rag card stock! Swap with your chums! Collect them all!

For the nosepicker in your life:

Picture: Manners for the Nosepicker

For parents of small brats run wild:

Picture: Manners for the Bad Parent

For the lady or gentleman with a bad case of B.O.:

Picture: Manners for the Odiferous

Picture: Lovely Ed!

Adoring Ed writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

Did you know that "Endears" is an anagram for "Ed Asner?" That, I'm afraid, is my problem. Ed Asner has endeared himself to me. I'm lovesick, and there doesn't seem to be any cure.

Others just see him as the old guy who was the mean boss on that Nick at Nite show Mary Tyler Moore. I can see the Ed hidden deep behind his gruff exterior, though. I can tell that he's really a big softie, a teddy bear of a man who likes to cuddle, listen to ska, and write love notes. He probably wouldn't be interested in a 15 year old girl, but I'll be 16 soon and then I'm only 2 years away from being 18! Then no one can stop me from marrying Ed.

My question is: How do I break it to my family that I have no interest in our neighbor Robbie Joyner? He's cute and all, but I'd sooner throw rocks at him than make him my squeeze! He always smells like walnuts and I hate walnuts! Also, once when I made a completely casual reference to Ed, he looked bored. Should I tell my folks that I'm saving myself for Ed, or should I wait a couple of years to tell them and just let them think I'm not interested in guys right now?

Thank You,
Adoring Ed

Sir Charles replies:

My dear young girl,

As one is not 'up' on 'television culture,' which one believes firmly to be the most moronic of oxymorons, one has had to consult with young Penelope Windsor-Smythe on the question. She is, one might have mentioned from time to time, eighty-fourth in line for the throne, and as Honourary President in absentia of the Greater Upper Ottawa Men's Curling League, she has ties to 'pop culture.' Young Penelope informs one that this Ed is a talking mule, or donkey, or suchlike, who lives with a man named Wilbur. Which may be all very well and good for children, my dear, but the day will come, mark my words, when you will confess to your friends that you could ride Ed Asner for hours, and they will giggle at you from behind their hands.

Young lady, one can only advise that you get your mind off your ass. And as for Robbie Joyner: A kind reminder, gently dropped, that a young lady does not enjoy the company of a young man who smells like his nuts can never be taken amiss.

Sympathetically, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Sir Brett writes:

Dear Chas.,

I haven't seen you at the hunting lodge for quite some time, old chap, and I wish that I could say that this is a social letter of some sort. But it is not, for I am seeking your advice to settle a domestic dispute between Elaine and myself. (You remember Elaine, don't you? I'm very sorry that we couldn't invite you to the wedding, but she insisted. In fact, while we were determining the guest list, she said, "That Neanderthal needs to keep his eyes and hands to himself." Such modesty: she didn't want the spotlight to be taken off you! Well, that's my Elaine. I'm not quite sure what she meant by 'Neanderthal,' but I was never the Latin scholar. Perhaps your ward could translate? After all, she is in line for throne . . . eighty-fourth, is she not? Elaine also praised your well-bred body, not wanting your 'Roman hands' in the receiving line. She must not have wished to embarrass our less elite guests.)

This altercation has become quite serious, jeopardizing our nightly games of "Hide the Only Slightly Aged British Sausage." Let me tell you of the crux of our argument.

My Pater (you remember Pater, don't you? He was always willing to take part in our childish games, even our make-believe imitations of that lowly occupation, the physician.) passed away several years ago, after more than a decade during which we did not speak to one another. This stemmed from an incident on my twenty-first birthday. I had set my heart upon owning a cherry-red 1932 Rolls Royce convertible, but I was handed, on my birthday, the family Bible. I did the only logical thing and stormed out of the house, to never communicate with the old fool again. However, last month while examining the books in the library (I was not reading them, of course; merely examining them) I came upon that old Bible and opened it. Out fell a pair of keys.

My wife insists that I apologize to Pater's grave, and admit that I was wrong for spurning him. I, however, have noted that the keys appear to be for a 1934 Rolls Royce, which entirely justifies my actions (imagine, two whole years newer!). Which of us is right?

Sincerely yours, Sir Brett Helmsworth

Sir Charles replies:

Brettster, old bean,

Odd that you should mention the Roman hands, for this very morning, one was strolling through the parlour when one of the parlourmaids whispered to another, "'Ere comes 'imself with 'is Roman 'ands." Obviously they are the talk of the staff. But did you know one had other Tuscan features as well? Why, just the other day, when one was motoring through town in the Rolls and the wife and oneself were passing the Fishampton Academy For Prospective Dairymaids, the Lady Felicia said to one in a low, insistent voice, "One twitch of those Roman eyes, husband, and I'll have your family jewels." Which was an odd comment, as she began wearing the Grandiose emeralds over a score of years ago.

Oh yes, the convertible. One sides with you thoroughly, old chap. Imagine, the old scone trying to pawn off the '34 on his only son! Why, that cut-rate model lacked most of the amenities of its predecessors, including the tortoiseshell calling call holder, the matching sealskin footrugs, and the cattle prod charger, so handy in London crowds.

With immense indignation for the correspondent, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Roy L. Paine writes:

Picture: Red Rover, Red Rover, Can Mrs. Payne Come Over? Dear Lady Felicia,

I am sure that you have often shed tears while reading Shakespeare's sonnets, particularly the ones in which he bemoans a rift between himself and his Muse. Of course, one does not read such sensational or frivolous literature in public places; however we all have succumbed to the temptation when alone, in a romantic mood, and in need of earthy matter.

I digress.

Not unlike our Dear William, I have of late become a stranger to the very gods which once smiled upon me and permitted me to pen a quantity of humble verse, none of which, I am sure you will be pleased to learn, is enclosed in this letter.

I am, as you might expect, deeply saddened by my helplessness, and thought that you might have some idea as to what might have brought it on. I have thoroughly explored my life in hopes of discovering a change--anything which might have triggered my drought, but the only disquieting occurrences recently have involved (I hesitate to mention it, as I do not understand why it bothers me) my darling Mrs. Payne and her odd habit of locking herself in the sewing room for hours at a time with only our Irish wolfhound, O'Toole for company. I fail to see how this unusual but ostensibly harmless new practice of Mrs. Payne's could have anything to do with my utter loss of rhyme and metre.

I remain, though in confusion,
Your humble servant,
Roy L. Payne, Esq.

The Lady Felicia replies:

My dear Mr. Payne,

How wonderful for you and your family that your spouse has become enamoured with your loyal hound and has become an animal lover. One shares your wife's admiration for things canine, and encourages her to consider readying O'Toole for the upcoming Fishampton Upper Crust Bank-Holiday Frolic and Outdoor Dog Trials. It is a most delightful event, full of merry-making as dog lovers from the outlying regions gather to share anecdotes and daring training techniques.

As to your difficulties with your poetry, perhaps you are just too healthy, Mr. Payne. One finds that the best and most prolific arts are produced by consumptive sorts, who, as they cough up portions of their internal organs, are spurred into creative fits of genius by reminders of the pending demise of their own vitality. As a suggestion, perhaps you could try contracting tuberculosis. Or a bit of cholera. Just do be certain to quarantine yourself from your wife, and her canine companion.

Serenely, one remains, Lady Felicia Grandiose

The Library | Write to Sir Charles | Cast of Characters | Credits | This Week