Picture: From the Sir Charles Grandiose Archives

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April 6, 1998 Picture: Git Along, Little Dogie One has never been a judgemental man. Never can it be said, whether by garlicky, over-amorous Frenchmen, or oily continental types, or even by spirit-sozzled Australians that one is a man given to reactionary and over-weening prejudice. One's readers (and one has it from an unshakable authority that were each of them a flea on the First Cat, Socks, the American President, after a short romp with the White House pussy, should have to remove his trousers to seek relief) know that one is as open-minded and unimpeachably free thinking as the next fellow. Provided, naturally, that the next fellow is also a peer of the British Empire who happens to have maintained the family fortune and who has not sold his estate and soul to predatory kimono-clad electronics manufacturers.

However, one cannot quite understand the popular mentality of our neighbours across the sea. One refers, of course, to the Americans. Now, one cannot fault one's American readers. After all by simply reading one's weekly venture in educating the masses, they have proven themselves above the dross. It is the American public arenas that resemble more a bloody mass spectacle in a hippodrome more than an organized dialogue between citizens in a democracy.

And it is the issue of blame to which one most objects. Anyone else, it would appear, is responsible for an individual's personal and public problems. If a chap murders his wife, it is certainly not his fault. It was the fault of the highly-sugared, processed foods in which he indulged that morning. If a woman dies of lung cancer, after smoking packet after packet of cigarettes, she is not responsible. Oh no. Never mind the warnings given nightly on the telly, or the moments when her own children begged her to desist. It was the evil manufacturers who forced her to suck on the nasty things until her breath was like brimstone and her lungs clotted and black.

It is a nation of people who like to look elsewhere--anywhere--to avoid introspection and the acceptance of responsibility. When many innocents were killed in their Oklahoma City, talk of foreign terrorists poured forth like the mighty waters of their Niagara. And what denial when the terrorists turned out to be their own! Even now, as the parents of innocent school children and teachers mourn their lost friends in Arkansas, the nation's media has flown into a feeding frenzy. How terrible, they say, that the eleven and thirteen-year old boys responsible for the deed were exposed to animated cartoons that warped their minds. How horrible that Society (from which the speakers seem to exclude themselves) did not heed the warning signs. How very horrid it all is, and how very many actors it will employ when someone, three years from now, makes a television movie of the week from the tragedy.

Yet how many of us took a moment to wonder how any of this tragic news could be surprising in a country in which it is considerably easier for youth to purchase guns than it is to obtain alcohol? How many thought to lay a bit of censure to their families, who collected so many guns? More telling, how many of us, however, thought to point fingers at the two nasty pieces of work actually responsible for the dread deed? Come on, now. Raise your hands.

Children can be quite awful creatures. They are rash and greedy, given to fits of tantrum and rage. Though many of today's parents feel that they need only protect their innocent young darlings from harm until they come of age, parents of a different generation knew that their jobs were to shape these irrational savages into fit citizens. They were to be a civilizing influence, not a sodden lump on the couch in the dim glow of the telly, polishing the rifle collection.

Having said one's piece, one remains for yet another week,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Babbette writes:

Picture: A Raggedy Old AssDear Sir Charles,

I'm sure you remember me and my jackass, Harry, from Cheeke. Since coming to the colonies, I've met some very friendly people and had a most interesting job offer.  That is why I need you to ask a question (I've had it on reasonably good authority that your fans are so numerous that, were they hairs on Harry, they would weight him down to such an extent that I could never get my poor little ass in gear and would be quite forced to drag my ass.)

I am currently living in Washington, DC, and have been offered a government job--something to do with furthering American and British relations. I might end up on the President's personal staff. Wouldn't that be exciting?

They say I'm quite qualified for the job. As a graduate of the Cheeke College of Cosmetology and Penmanship, I have excellent handwriting and my hair always looks lovely. I have been doing quite a bit of extra teasing, and it certainly has paid off! Also, many high officials have complimented me on my oral skills. I feel sure the position is within my grasp, but alas--I have to perfect my computer skills.

And therein lies my question: Where do all the letters and numbers go when you delete them?

Preferring the bold stroke of a solid pen, I remain,
Babbette "Bouf" Pompadour

Sir Charles replies:

Miss Pompadour,

How fondly one remembers you and your enormous old ass. Quite a hairy ass too, one recalls. One believes that it was as one was driving into your quaint home town, stopping at the Tung in Cheeke Inn to house one's minions that one first saw you, my girl, silhouetted against the sunset. One turned to the Lady Felicia and remarked, "What a handsome ass that girl drags behind her."

There is still a slight twinge in one's jaw from the resulting fisticuffs, but the swelling (you will be happy to know) receded within a week.

As one is not, as they say, a 'jacker' when it comes to computers, one put the correspondent's question to one's secretary. The resultant confused batting of his eyelashes as he dimwittedly considered the conundrum did little more than create a cool breeze. Therefore one ventures one's own opinion: The small fairies and sprites inside the computer box who paste them to the screen take them down, of course.

With regards to your raggedy old ass, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Disgusted writes:

Most Esteemed Gentleman:

 I take it that you have been informed of the recent doings of the young princes of our Great Empire, William and (as he is undoubtedly commonly known) Harry in Canada whilst being accompanied by their father, our dear Prince of Wales.

I am in distress over the elder lad, William, who shockingly performed a "rap" pose instantly recognizable by the young common people. Apparently young adolescent ladies (most of whom were certainly not accompanied by their governesses) at the sight were delighted.

What say you to this display of crudeness and vulgarity, as well as to the Royal Family's plan to relate to the "people?" This is our future monarch!

If he had struck the more appropriate poses of a young lad of his station, such as sneering down one's nose at the common folk, I would deem it most suitable and appropriate. Should his father, our dear Prince of Wales, be horsewhipped?

Disgusted in Devonshire

Sir Charles replies:


Any suggestion to horsewhip old 'Whiffle Ears' meets with one's approval, boyeee.

Noting that 'Fergie' got 'back,' one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

New Husbandwrites:

Picture: May I Take Your Inseam, Sir?Dear Sir Charles,

I'm a newlywed in Nashua. I've only been married for three months, and it's getting on my nerves. What's the deal with not being able to live the way I want? For example, when I get home for the day, I like to take off my pants and throw them onto the back of the chair in the bedroom and let them air out a bit. But then in comes Sheila, my wife, and she's taking them down and putting them in the hamper and making the house all neat and clean.

What's the deal? Can't I leave my pants hanging? Can't a man live the way he wants?

New Husband In New Hampshire

Sir Charles replies:


If one has learned anything from several years as the advisor to the witless, it is this: In a marriage, the wife has the perfect right to take down her husband's trousers whenever the whim strikes.

With brevitude, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

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