The Fop

Huzzah!

The great drum of justice has beaten, and a decisive blow has been dealt to the Henry Wigglesworths of the world. Sir Michael Jackson is free! In spite of the concerted efforts of the social pages of the world (and those of one envious bastard in particular), the light of truth could not be blotted out. It has been a harrowing ordeal for myself and Sir Jackson both, one which recalled similar injustices past, but we have prevailed. And now the tide shall turn against the wretched members of the press!

Yes, it seems that the very zeal with which the vultures of the fourth estate set upon the man shall be their undoing. All of their foul declarations have been revealed as lies, and I have no doubt that the common man will respond to their maliciousness in kind. I am quite sure that within a few days' time, the plebeian masses will take to the streets and avenues, crying for the heads of those who deceived them. It will make for a horribly messy affair (as was that uprising in France some years back that took the life of my cher Uncle Guillame), but it will end with Mr. Henry Wigglesworth's head upon a pike -- and myself freed from the fetters of the social pages!

Now I am off to the garden, where I have arranged for a secret rendez-vous with my dear mate Crispin. We have taken to meeting there of late in response to Prudence's recent prohibition of all treats from the household; Crispin brings with him a supply of buttered brazils and chewing nuts, and we feast upon them side by side in the moonlight. It is not an ideal arrangement, and I do feel at times like a savage foraging through the bush, but it must tide us over until a better solution can be reached. And even these wanting conditions cannot dampen my spirit after today's proceedings. I shall delight in my little celebration of Sir Jackson's acquittal, as I am sure will you, dear reader!

In defense of Mr. Tom Cruise

It seems to me ofttimes that my life consists in a series of tragedies, and the cross I bear is a heavy one. In these moments this missive is invaluable, for relating the slings and arrows that misfortune foists upon me helps to assuage the pain. But I must not lose sight of the divine ordinance that first made me take up the pen: It is my duty to come to the defense of those peers that the penny dailies devour, and to shine the light of truth upon the slander they print in their execrable social pages. And as of late, these reporters have been engaged in a veritable feast. It is Mr. Tom Cruise who is impaled upon their spit, and Henry Wigglesworth of the Whitehill Courier sits at the head of the table!

A week ago Mr. Cruise moved me to tears with what was the most eloquent and sincere expression of love I have ever heard; bounding up and down upon Lady Oprah Winfrey's chesterfield, he proclaimed his undying devotion to Ms. Katie Holmes and swore lifelong fidelity to her. It was a wondrous sight, one both poignant and delicate, but soon the shadow of the bastardly press was cast upon it. Rather than celebrating their forthcoming union with the zeal traditionally bestowed upon similar ones, the fiends greeted the happy news with nothing but scorn and cynicism, casting doubt upon the honor of the couple's intentions and Mr. Cruise's very romantic persuasion! 

Mr. Cruise and Ms. Holmes' coupling shall not be the first that the penny dailies have run their battering ram through. I have watched with disgust as they have laid siege to royal unions,  and with horror as they drove apart lovers who had crossed the borders of caste and race. In short, no consortium is sacred in the eyes of the Henry Wigglesworths of the world, and those of us of the higher social order are forced to pursue our amorous pleasures in secrecy. Yes, dear reader, I too have a love , but I dare not speak its name. And until our world is one where Mr. Tom Cruise can hoist himself upon a chesterfield and proudly give voice to the patterings of his heart, I shall not breathe a word further upon the matter.

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.

The Trumps: My colonial counterparts

Although they are colonials and thus of a lower caste, the members of the Trump line echo my own lineage in many ways. And I shall confess that I have always felt an ethereal bond with Donald Trump Jr., knowing that his father must frequently prove to be as tiresome as mine.

And now the wretched dailies have laid their diseased grip upon the young Trump, revealing the ashes of an old romance between his fiancee and a member of a street gang known as the Latin Kings. So I ask the reporters at the Whitehill Courier: Wherein lies the crime? Were Henry Wigglesworth and his peers free of youthful folly?

Perhaps I can deflect this unwanted attention from the happy couple with a confession of my own:  I, too, was once a member of a youth group. We were known and feared as the Sugar Row Gang, and we found each other over a shared love of the poetry of Arthur Rimbaud. We would hoard and devour ginger snaps and licorice rolls, and I am sure that we, like the Latin Kings,  left many broken hearts in our path. Is it just that they be broken again through exposure in the social pages? Call off your dogs, Wigglesworth!

Leave Mrs. Anthony be!

I have a deep and unyielding admiration for Ms. Jennifer Lopez, a street urchin who rose through the class ranks in true jaunty fashion. That seems to put me in a rare breed these days, if one is to go by the beasts at the penny dailies! While it is of some relief to see someone else fall victim to the social pages, it is my solemn duty to come to the defense of a fellow mondaine.

Ms. Lopez has chosen to take the name of her diminuitive Spanish husband, thus becoming Mrs. Jennifer Anthony. And the journalists of the fourth estate are taking great delight in mocking her decision! Have they never yearned to abandon their name, and with it the coil of a troubled past? Has Henry Wigglesworth, of the Whitehill Courier, never thought to slip his renowned name, becoming instead "Henry Wigglesby" or "H.Wyg"? I have dreamed of shaking the fetters of my cursed bloodline, but to do so would mean forgoing my father's monthly stipend. I want no part of your wretched railroad, father! Leave me to my wayfaring ways!