The Fop

Ms. Rosie O'Donnell, wordsmith

I shall confess that I was at one time wary of Rosie O'Donnell; the prefix in her surname suggested to me that the woman was of poor stock. Her performances, however, have revealed this Celtic satirist's true character. I now acknowledge that I was grossly erroneous in my judgement -- Ms. O'Donnell is in fact very well bred, and a wonderfully perceptive and enlightened creature. Her intellectual prowess was most evident during the recent elections in the colonies, when Ms. O'Donnell's oratorical skills and strength of leadership came to the fore in her eloquent attacks upon a candidate.

Given this burgeoning admiration, I was positively giddy to discover that Ms. O'Donnell keeps a personal missive of her own! We are truly blessed to be privy to this delicate being's intimate reflections, and I have come to learn much of her complex character. Were you aware that, in addition to being a great orator, Ms. O'Donnell is a gifted poet? It is true -- she is as skilled with the pen as she is with the tongue. Witness these stanzas from her poem, a piece entitled "hollywood still":

"today in the paper
baby bush - mr “gays suck”
was holding hands
with the crown prince of saudi arabia
nearly all the 9 -11 hijackers
were saudis
and we are killing people daily
in iraq"

It is a wonderful bit of verse -- both pointed and poignant -- and it suspends me in a state of meditation which I imagine Mr. Wordsworth approached while looking down upon Tintern Abbey. One can only hope that Ms. O'Donnell will someday compile her works in a volume, bound and gilded so as to match the exquisitiness of the words held within. 

Prudence the cook

It seems that my apprenticehip at Father's railway offices has already produced ill effects; Ms. Myrtleberry has hired a new cook! Because I was drudging about the vile railways, I was not present at her interviews, as I had planned to be. The consequences of my absence are far more profound and dire than I feared they could be, and it seems that they will dog me for the rest of my days.

The new cook's name is Prudence. She is a great beast of a woman, all ruddy in the face, and even the most menial of labour sets her panting like a sheepdog.  How she came to be of such immense girth is a mystery, but I am sure it was not the result of her own cooking, which is wretched in every regard.

We had our first taste of Prudence's preparations at our evening supper, which consisted in a runny turnip stew accompanied by black bread so tough that it pained my gums to chew. A single mouthful set me gagging loudly, and I set the meal aside, electing instead to satiate my famine with the dessert. But no dessert was forthcoming this evening, nor will it be any evening hereafter. Ms. Prudence is of the firm opinion that all things sweet are poor for the constitution, and has banned all forms of them -- jellies, jams and pastries y compris -- from the kitchen!

Upon learning of this I immediately implored both father and Ms. Myrtleberry to dismiss the beast, but was met with reproach. Not only do they both share Prudence's views on proper diet, but it was for her nutritional convictions that the mammoth was offered the post! I must devise a solution, but am too weak with hunger at present to broach the matter. In the morn, I am off to the sweets shop, where I shall stuff myself with licorice rolls and aniseed balls.

My apprenticeship begins

As I write this, I am crippled with fatigue. Ms. Myrtleberry roused me at an ungodly hour this morning with a message from father that I was to commence my apprenticeship at his railway offices. The news came as a complete shock, and I was not afforded much time to digest it; I was scarcely able to affix my periwig before being whisked into our private carriage!

Father's railway offices lie at the eastern end of Woogston Road, in a squalid section of the city known as Tuttle Village. The inhabitants of this area are as squalid as its streets and, heedful that gentlemen are in my father's employ, they cluster about the entryways, begging for scraps and shiny pennies. The interior of the offices are no more appealing: The workers are all in a bustle and terribly rude for it, and the Chinamen who construct the rail lines seem to be always darting underfoot, creating an air of horrid nuisance.

I shall not recount the activities of the day itself, for to relive them would simply be too exhausting. Suffice it to say that I trifled away most of my time cooped up in father's personal office, regretful at not having had the foresight to bring along my marbles for amusement. My only spot of pleasure came in leaving the offices, when I witnessed the delight that two Chinamen seemed to take in my appearance. I feel that seeing a gentleman dressed in the most current fashion was a great source of inspiration for them. Perhaps they shall henceforth be more motivated in their work, knowing that their wages may one day buy them a waistcoat or frock not unlike my own.

 

Bravo, Ms. Witherspoon!

Reports of Ms. Reese Witherspoon's recent difficulties with the press have been a source of great distress to me; having lost my dear Princess Di to a pack of these mad dogs, I could not bear to watch another angel fall at the hands of the cursed social pages. My malaise was inflated by the fact that Ms. Witherspoon's  crisis coincided with my own similar one: Today, pictures of the blasted marbles incident appeared in the pages of the Whitehill Courier.

So it was with great relish to read that Ms. Witherspoon has set the local constabulary upon the fiends, and will be pursuing some vigilante justice of her own! The clever thing has taken to carrying a camera, with which she secures images of the very fiends who seek to photograph her! Now, when the wretched bastards splash her face across the gossip pages, they will do so with the uneasy knowledge that Ms. Witherspoon may be gleefully browsing through a photo journal of her own! It is a right devilish scheme, one which I should never have the courage to carry out (although I am sure the idea occurred to me).

In short: Bravo, Ms. Witherspoon! We who crusade against the penny dailies are too few, and we welcome you to the cause. Your bold act has further strengthened our own conviction.

Jam Roly Poly and Spotted Dick

Cook has given father her notice. Why she wishes to leave us I do not know, and it is of little consequence to me. Her beet stew was foul and I will be glad to see the last of her.

Father's secretary, Ms. Myrtleberry, will be conducting interviews to fill the position in the upcoming days. And I intend to be present at the proceedings, for it is imperative that the new chef be well-versed in preparing all my favourite meals, desserts and teatime delicacies. I am a great lover of Welsh Rarebit, Pigs in a Blanket and Flaming Chicken, and insist upon sweet treats like Jam Roly Poly and Treacle Pudding. It is equally pressing that our cook be proficient with my chum Crispin Devonshire's preferred dishes, such as Syrup Ginger Cake and Spotted Dick. Crispin is a dear friend and frequent guest, and his comfort and pleasure are of the utmost importance to me.

The black arts of David Blaine

It seems that good news begets further celebration: On the heels of recovering my stipend, I have learned that one of my preferred entertainers, the conjurer David Blaine, will be returning to performance! The sorceror Blaine's powers are truly extraordinary; one need only gaze briefly into his dark, mysterious eyes to feel the weight of his powers.

I am aware of the skepticism surrounding Mr. Blaine's works, but I know it is misplaced -- for I have dabbled in the black arts myself. In my school days, an old chum provided me with a talking "Ouija" planchette. He exchanged it to me for the fee of 10 quid (a sum I recall clearly because father was irate to hear of it, having paid a similar amount to acquire a plot of miserable, weed-ridden land). I put the planchette to test the very evening of the purchase, and witnessed its strange powers almost immediately... but this topic is not suited to the hour. I must be off to bed, and any further thoughts of these matters will set my nerves all a jangly and clutter my sleep with fright.

Boswell: My bane and saviour both!

I have emerged from the murkiest depths of despair, buoyed upwards by a bosom swelling with joy. Father has restored my monthly stipend! And for this I am indebted to James Boswell, that same man that I dismissed as a brute some days ago. Allow me to recount the curious tale:

Father was in attendance at my morning lesson, ostensibly to ensure that my mind did not turn to daydreaming. The tutor was dictating Boswell's lessons, one of which incorporated the following turn of phrase:

"I have discovered that we may be in some degree whatever character we choose. Besides, practice forms a man to anything."

The words seemed to seize father's imagination, and he hurried off to his study, where he set about noisily shifting papers and composing telegrams. By the time I completed my morning studies, his plans were set: I shall serve as an apprentice in his railway offices, where practice is to form me as a capable heir to the business.

I want nothing of his rotten railways, and upon learning of my fate, the tears began to well in my eyes. But then father assented that, as reward for my concurrence, he will be restoring my stipend! I shall have to escort him to his filthy offices next week, and I am expected to continue learning the lessons of the wretched Boswell. But these unpleasantries lie in the distant future; today, I am off to the shops to buy a waistcoat and a new cravat!

The physiognomy lecture

At my tutor's suggestion, father took me to a Natural Sciences lecture this evening. Knowing that it would be a dreadful bore, I resisted forcefully and threw an absolute fit. I only consented when father agreed to allow my old schoolmate, Crispin Devonshire, accompany us. We get along so marvelously, Crispin and I; I do believe we are linked at the soul.

As anticipated, the lecture was an absolute bother: a horrid old Finnish man prattling on about the physiognomy of criminals. Thank the heavens for dear Crispin! Just as the Finn launched into a tirade about the length of Jack the Ripper's chin, Crispin, possessive of his usual foresight, revealed to me that he had smuggled his bag of marbles into the lecture hall! Giggling as discreetly as we could, we took each other by the hand and stole out of the hall, into the adjoining alley.

Yet, as ever, misfortune is my mistress. Not a minute had passed after rolling out the marbles and starting a hearty game of Spans and Snops, and father came rushing out into the alley, all red in the face! He took my by the ear and pulled me forcefully to our carriage, leaving poor Crispin alone! And the affair grew sourer still: As father tugged me through the crowd by my lobe, what should I see through my veil of tears but one of Henry Wigglesworth's minions -- a photographer for the Whitehill Courier!

Now here I sit with a cold compress on my ear, knowing that in a few days' time, the whole affair will be a matter of public record in the social pages. And I am still without my monthly stipend. I tire so of all this wretched business... perhaps I shall whisk away to Spain to live among the Moors.

 

Kirk Cameron: A true man of the cloth

In my moments of tearful despondency, when I find myself being lashed by father's tongue or the object of ridicule in the social pages, I find solace in the spiritual. No, I shan't attend mass, for there is a terrible draft inside the church and I can't stomach the stench of the lepers huddled on the front steps. Instead, I seek comfort in the words of my pious peers.   

In matters of religious reverence, my esteemed colleague Kirk Cameron is unparalleled. His warm words on his personal missive, The Way Of The Master, have guided me through many a dark valley, and I have no doubt that Mr. Cameron's elevated place on the social scale has brought him closer to the otherworldly. Tonight, I am lost in such a valley -- give me strength, mon cher abbé! 

Agatha Myrtleberry

I am in the depths of utter despair today, for father has suspended my monthly stipend. And it's all the work of the foul Ms. Myrtleberry, father's personal secretary! I am having great difficulty composing this, my tears are burning so, but I will do my best to relate how the wretched affair came about.

I was gallivanting about Woogston Road with my dearest of chums, Crispin Devonshire, the two of us in search of some form of distraction. Just as we had resigned ourselves to an afternoon of aimless middling, what should cross our path but a Jack Russell terrier! It was the smallest, funniest dog we had seen in some time, and sent us both into gales of mirthful laughter! My chortles were quickly silenced, however, by the unexpected sight of Ms. Myrtleberry, her hateful eyes boring into us from across the thoroughfare.

As you may recall, father has prohibited me from laughing in public, in accordance with the teachings of James Boswell. And once the old bag Myrtleberry told him of the affair (with some outward appearance of glee of her own, I might add!), father reacted in typically brutish fashion, revoking my stipend!

I must devise some means to recover it. Leave me be now! I shall bathe myself in the pools of silent contemplation.