Friday, February 23, 2007

Salutations of Marvellous News!

Philboyd Snrub is dead!

Pardon the breach of proper good manners - as a rule I find any deviation from those golden and sound rules of ettiquite put down by the inestimable Emily Post to be wholly unpardonable, but such utterly wonderful fine news this is that the upwelling of good cheer in me quite overpowered my civilized faculties and leaves me not but to trust that you will surely manage to forgive me given the light of the situation and, that not withstanding, my own naturally winning charm - my name is Silas Tomken Cumberbatch and I am most pleased to be making your acquaintance.

(Upon saying his name Mr. Cumberbatch flashes a bright smile, fully displaying his very straight teeth and generally conveying a sense of his potent charisma. He then tells me, D.C., to make a note of exactly that in his dictation for the benefit of those at home. )

There will be time to more fully introduce myself to you in days to come for, I can assure you my eager public, that we walk a long and golden road together. I have just recently become the executer of the late Mr. Snrub's will and care-taker of his, I must begrudgingly admit, fabulous estate.

(Mr. Cumberbatch goes over to the wide parlor windows that look out from the third floor over the willow lake and attendant swan stables. He gazes thoughtfully and deeply at the lands, a certain divine light of intellect gleaming in his eyes as he strokes his sculpted cheek-bones, he informs me.)

Having been something of a vanished person for six months a powerful cabal of Mr. Snrub's enemies, which I am happy to represent, manuvered things such that the mad miser's lands were foreclosed upon and the man himself declared blessedly dead. Accordingly his assets have been largely liquidated, liens have been placed on his auxillary estates, and those slaves which did not starve to death have been freed - into my employ as indentured servants.

(Mr. Cumberbatch lets loose a mighty guffaw at this and slaps both his sides and knees for some time. As his mirth subsides he places his arms akimbo, elbows barging out at the world as if to say "No lad is a saucier lad than I!")

What of the goings on in this distant and inscrutable land? The late Mr. Snrub had prepared, I can see here on his desk, some screed in regard to the merits of the various flower festivals on the island and some sort of ancient king whose full regalia was composed of a thousand Hibiscus blossoms. Flowers as clothing! That is exactly the kind of ridiculous falderall that has led the world, by which I mean America, into such a decline.

(Mr. Cumberbatch's face turns as red as the heart of an exploding volcano as he vents his rage, flecks of spittle erupting from his mouth as stamps his wingtipped foot upon the parque floor, as if trodding upon all the flowers of the world.)

Instead of this clap-trap I will personally treat to you to a work of my own creation for the betterment of all. I entitle it "A Re-Exploration of the Finer Points of Ettiquiet: Part I" which will follow in the coming days.

Yours with warmest regards and appropriate contempt,


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