Mrs. Titus W. Trout
Chairman, The Workhouse for the
Indigent and Helplessly Idle
Grimswold, ------shire

November 29, 1999

Dear Sir Charles Grandiose,

On behalf of the slothful poor whom we help at the Workhouse for the Indigent and the Helplessly Idle, I wish to thank you and the Lady Felicia for your annual holiday charity. Your shipment of, as you describe it, 'warm clothing, nutritious foodstuffs, and educational materials' have left the staff of our establishment with their collective jaws scraping the parquet.

What words of thanks can I formulate to thank you for the--how shall I put it delicately?--the overabundance of goods you have deemed fit for the humble abilities and stations of our inmates? What words of gratitude might I speak to express the gratitude that the inmates of our workhouse will feel upon looking at your donation? Quite honestly, Sir Charles, none come to mind.

Without further ado, then, I shall quickly inventory your donation. You may consider this letter to be your receipt.

Received as of the twenty-second of November, the year 1999, for the use of the inmates of the Workhouse for the Indigent and the Helplessly Idle:

• 30 evening gowns from assorted designers (Molyneux, Doucet, D'Oeuillet, Worth, and Renee) in assorted silks, size 8.
• 23 day frocks worn only once last season while staying at the Deauville Sporting Club (broken tennis racket, 3 sets of mangled golf clubs, 2 saddles and tack included).
• 314 of last season's woman's hats (assorted seasons, assorted styles), including 79 evening headdresses (including beaded and feathered).
• 1 woman's beaver colored Buracotta hunting costume (sans rifle).
• 1 woman's checked Kasha cape, the pocket of which included the note 'Meet me at midnight by the fountain, my Snow Princess.'
• 1 woman's coat of Clan Tchinellaine lined with Kasha.
• 10 woman's capes (suitable for opera going)
• 12 nearly new man's silk smoking jackets with ash-holes.
• 5 1/2 pairs man's wool hunting socks, much worn but apparently never washed.
• 15 baskets of nutritious food, containing a goodly supply of marron glaces, dried apricots, 15 pounds of smoked salmon, 9 unrefrigerated slices of pate, 2 cases of a less than stunning champagne apparently left over from a recent holiday party.
• 375 self-published librettos of an unproduced musical by Sir Charles Grandiose, entitled Baronet!
• 212 back issues of RoyaltyWatch! magazine, 1968-1976.

Again, Sir Charles, words fail us all, here at the workhouse.

Your flabbergasted correspondent,
Mrs. Titus W. Trout

Richard writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

Over the course of the last decade I've been trying diligently to climb the corporate ladder. Yes, Sir Charles, I'm afraid I'm of that great unwashed mass of people who must work for a living. But I've resigned myself to my lot and try not to complain.

I've noticed, however, at different levels my  superiors are always on about different sports. When I started off at the lower levels, my co-workers and bosses were always talking about football, and I'd have to play games with them on the weekends, watch the matches on the television, and buy tickets for the tournaments.

When I was promoted a few years later, all the middle management executives talked about was tennis. I had to buy a racquet, play on weekends with the wife and in doubles matches, and keep up with Wimbledon.

I've just been promoted to the upper management and now I find that all my colleagues and superiors talk about is golf. I'm truly alarmed. Golf clubs cost a fortune! Sir Charles, what is going on?

Sincerely,
Richard Avelough

Sir Charles replies:

Richard, my lad,

One is truly sorry for your plight. Having to work, that is. One can scarcely imagine the horror.

As for your distress, one fears that it is caused by a simple paradigm. In the working world, the higher one climbs, the smaller become one's balls.

Looking to the stock market for one's personal salvation, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Mrs Entemann writes:

Hey Sir Charles,

I don't know why you think you're so hot. I bet that if we took your ward Penelope and my son Dirk that Dirk would win hands down. Dirk is a honor student and he gets straight A's in his class and he is captain of the football team and he sings in his church choir. I know you toffee-nosed types couldn't beat that!

Mrs Shirley M. Entemann,
Olivia Creek, North Dakota

Sir Charles replies:

Dear Mrs Entemann,

Your son may be an honour student, but you, madam, are still a bona-fide idiot.

With a hearty 'Away with ye!,' one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Raquel  writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I seem to have a bit of an attention problem. Every Sunday during the sermon I fall asleep in church. Usually I can jerk myself away pretty quickly, but the longer (and the more boring) the sermon, the bigger the chances are that I'll start to snore.

I don't want to stay away from church, but it's getting embarrassing to face the minister week after week. Do you have any suggestions?

Sincerely,
Raquel K.

Sir Charles replies:

My dear young miss,

Many people experience the same problem as yourself. Staying awake during a long, cold church service is a test of endurance and concentration. Why, one experiences difficulties oneself.

However, one has developed a fool-proof plan to evade the clutches of Morpheus. Instead of paying attention to the church service, one suggests immersing oneself in a fantasy of a pleasant place. When one is in church, one imagines oneself on a tropical beach surrounded by coconuts and papayas and the warm sands and the gentle susurrus of the ocean. Native girls are massaging one's feet and calves, as a particularly nubile young native applies coconut oil to one's back, her hands relentlessly smoothing one's responsive, tingling skin, as she gazes into one's eyes with imploring desires, barely contained . . . .

At any rate, one concentrates on the fantasy in order to forget that one is in the church. Of course, it would be so much easier to accomplish without the vicar and the congregation yelling at one to get on with reading the scripture verse for the week.

Still smelling the poi, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose