My favorite pastime: the stomping on of dreams.

As some of my less profoundly dense readers may have noticed, I have suffered the writings of a young "D.C." to appear in this space from time to time. This is, detestably, a necessary nuissance to be tolerated. As fate would have it the excesses of my hedonistic lifestyle leave me malingering for indeterminable lenghts of time in the various jacuzzis and spas of my far-flung estates. To maintain some rough sense of regularity, and thus a readership to vent my irreproachable spleen upon, I have been compelled to take on this well-intentioned, though ham-fisted, protege. (Forgive my lapse in proper diacritics, once more the bougeious inter-net has sullied my scintillating prose.)
At any rate the man-boy has proven to be obtusely long-winded and meticuloulsy boring, two laudable qualities that remind me of my own young self. Indeed, he would even show the glimmer of potential where he not, in fact, an adle-patted, starry-eyed, bed-pan tender.

Prattle-mongers aside, you will now hear about my recent trip to the Mainland. No, I will not be more specific, if you are confused already I insist you quit reading now - you will only succeed at making yourself look even more foolish by persisting. The thought of your brow furrowing in a vain attempt to comprehend my prose curdles my stomach even at this great intellectual distance.

I find that the larger islands agree with me, so many fewer of the uncouth louts that populate the surroundings here who are forever intoxicating themselves and kicking up their heels without cowling themselves beneath proper amounts of shame. Ah yes, the stodginess, the inflexibility, the rigorous and brittle pride - such a joy to be surrounded by myriad others who personify what I cultivate so mindfully in myself. Indeed, the trill of pleasure was only heightened by the bosom of friendship I was welcomed into. An entourage of like-minded compatriots, nearly as callow and haughty as I pride myself to be, were my willing escorts about the nation proper. Together we threw many an arch glance and inquiring eyebrow at the oafish clodhoppers stumble-bumming their way through the grim pageant of life, only to collapse onto divans afterwards wholly spent and wanting nothing more than a bottle of sweet absinthe to dull the harping edge of existance.

Why, I remember one evening - it must have been quite nearly the Yuletide for I recall that the eponomious log was nearly spent - when my dear friend Ophelia, a sharpish vixen of cruel beauty, drew the hookah pipe from her mouth and called to mind a slack jawed yokel she had seen lummoxing about in the onsen from which we had recently retired. As she phrased it, the lumpy woman had been staring at her perfect form as she strutted through the cloying steams quite in awe that a woman, though so advanced in years, could nevertheless maintain such a figure, as the rose suspended in vacuum-sealed jar may wither and yet maintain all its shriveled leaves. Growing increasingly repulsed by the proleteriat gaze Ophelia of course began to tongue lash the dottering woman, and did so with such blistering ferocity that she quite nearly brought her to tears.
"And furthermore," Ophelia had concluded, "If I were the owner of a pair of buttocks that looked like nothing so much than a bowl of tapioca I'm quite sure I would commit suicide - a course of action I whole-hearted urge you to follow." The frivolity of the anecdote so amused me that I started coughing on my opium smoke! Afterwards we fell to it like minxes until our attendant man-servants came to issue the summons to Christmas breakfast. Oh what a Merry Christmas that was!

Alas, my fingers grow tired of crafting. Go now, my servile readers, lament that paucity of your own lives in comparison to mine.

-Philboyd Snrub