I Promise Next Time Will Be Pictures Of The Girls...



In the meantime I am still using the time I would previously have used for procrastination (or writing blog entries) to cleaning out my e-mail, a task which one might describe as Herculean, akin to cleaning out those Augean stables of myth. If I was more willing to toss everything it would go much quicker. But if I tossed everything, how would I ever find gems like this one:

Correspondence of Two English Gentlemen

This is an actual series of e-mail correspondences that started, oddly enough with some confusion over whether the baseball player Kirby Puckett was forced into retirement by being beaned with a baseball badly enough to break his jaw. The first gentlemen writes:

"On September 28, [1995] however, Puckett was struck in the face by a Dennis Martinez pitch. The blow left Puckett with a shattered jaw. He attempted to make his comeback in 1996 and hit .360 in spring training. Then, on March 30, he awoke to find he couldn't see out of his right eye."

He got the beaning of all beans. I will admit that it probably didn't exacerbate his glaucoma, as it hit him on the left and his right eye went blind, but the timing is a little suspicious. Let me hit you in the head hard enough to break your jaw and lets see how the rest of your head likes it. Remember he eventually died of a stroke, another head-related item.

Even so, I conceed the point.

To which the second gentleman, a man of most ill-repute responds:

I concede the beaning.

Aren't we polite today!

These tepid beginnings rapidly escalate out of control, leading to this entire exchange, starting with the dignified hero:

Do you mock me, sir?

Swlap! Swlap! [Glove strikes each cheek]

Pistols at dawn. You may choose the location. My second will be Sir Harold of Teplitam, a most upstanding chap. If we both survive I suggest tea in the Buearegard Gardens afterwards, with a spot of crumpet.

Good day, sir.

I said good day!

Then the loathesome roustabout:

I accept! I demand satisfaction!

As my previous second, Lord Skiffington, was unfortunately shot in the head due to an unfortunate wayward shot during my last duel, I am forced to rely on the services of Edward, the piss-boy.

Do not fret, Edward! You shall make a grand second. Do you know what is required of a second? No? It's fantastically easy; you will be fine. You do know how to fire a pistol, yes? Good boy. Please instruct the stable-master to bring my horses around. What's that you're suggesing, Edward? Why would I be leaving town? Oh, the impertinence of you, Edward -- no, my boy, I merely feel like, er, a ride. Yes. A ride.

Some time passes, where assumedly both gentlemen prepare for their tense and well thought out duel... Then another correspondence from our tale's villain:

Despite my initial cowardice, I decided to be true to my word and show my manhood -- er, manliness. I was there for our duel.

Where, sir, where you?

In your cowardly absence, Sir Harold took up your pistol. Apparently, Sir Harold informed you neither of his extreme nearsightedness nor his fear of spectacles.

As I fired into the air -- after all, I bear no malice toward Sir Harold -- he fired wildly and shot poor Edward the Piss-Boy dead.

This being my second second to die in a duel, I fear that no one will second me in the future. My dueling future is doomed!

Outraged, our hero replies immediately:

Apparently you informed good Sir Harold of the locale, but failed to send me the same missive. Now while Harold is a true blue-blood, a gentleman, and a crack shot, he is not, sadly, capable of speech, having lost his tongue in an unfortunate croquet incident during the Boer Wars. He moaned something at me this morn, to be certain, but I assumed it was his usual good-natured jests and high feelings.

It was I that figured you for a coward, having never heard back as to the location, which I believe you will recall I left up to you. I figured you had scurried back to Normandy or Gibralter or wherever such neer-do-wells such as yourself call home. Perhaps Sussex.

But now Sir Harold has appeared with a detailed diagram done in pastels (or is it oils?) of him firing at a cowering second while a bewildered nobleman looks on. You should see the subtle gradations of reds. A tour de force. Anyway, clearly this is a misunderstanding resulting in the death of a peasant.

So no harm done.

I expect you to bring your third and appear before the gates of Lorkanmanshirebergexx at dawn tomorrow. No make that 10, I am having my car detailed.

Sir Harold can then kill him and we can have that spot of tea I was so looking forward to. The Buearegard gardens do have the loveliest honeyed tea cakes...

The bootblack is properly chastised:

Very well. Lorkanmanshirebergexx at 10 it shall be. I will bring my third -- a toad, which my 11-year-old niece has cleverly named Mister Toad. Although Mister Toad is quite unable to hold a pistol -- in fact, the pistol is quite a bit larger than Mister Toad himself -- I do find that he provides a most unexpected level of emotional support. Oh, Mister Toad! You comfort me in ways I have never before known.

Speaking of hopping creatures, please inform Sir Harold that indeed, I do have his false leg in my possession after all. I am not quite certain how it ended up with my irons and woods, but here it is. I do owe him an apology: the bad is mine.

Someday, I hope to hear from Sir Harold -- well, not so much from Sir Harold as from anyone else -- the story of the dangerous leech that took his limb.

Should Sir Harold be unable to fire his weapon at such a small creature with acceptable aim, I do believe he will find that Mister Toad can be crushed under his good foot without undue effort.

Very much looking forward to tea in the Buearegard Gardens. I wonder, sir: I am very familiar with the Beauregards -- and initially, I thought that it was this fine family that named the gardens. Ah, but twice now, you have informed me that the proper spelling of the name is Buearegard -- clearly a different family. I know no Buearegards -- perhaps you could arrange an introduction?

To which the dashing young gent can only express his delight at the opportunity to assist another in social advancement:

Oh, the Buearegards! A very old family. They predate the written word, don't you know.

They live in caves and smash the skulls of passerbys for food. Could not be more ancient. Their youngest, little Lord Chaka, has just grown his first full body beard and is most dashing.

And by dashing, once again I am refering to how he will crush your skull and then eat you.

But the gardens are lovely.

10 it is. Smashing.

I suppose I must mention that in all likelihood I will be completely invisible, for tomorrow is a Friday and I am afraid my religious proclivities insist on transparency on that holiest of days. Be assured I will be there. Feel free to tell the toad to shoot wildly at any disturbance or shimmering in the air. Harold, of course, will shoot your amphibian or barring that, smash it and then eat it (he's of French descent don't you know).

Then Marmalade. I am atitter!

But sadly, like much in life, it ends with a wimper:

French? I am afraid I must cancel. I am allergic to the French.

I was wondering about the cause of today's hives.

I am still available for tea, if you would like.

I do not believe the tea issue has ever been satisfactorly resolved.

S.

P.S. Kudos to the villain Todd who ably assisted me in going so off the rails.