Day 14

A Penneth of Doggerel



7.16 Breakfasting on my own fromage du tête
Subject: Reissen Reissen on der Wall

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



Reissen oder night zu reissen, das ist der frage.
Hef a vundervoller fahrt unt fort, fort unt baeck.
Menny a verm unt affektshunist kuessen unt hueggen.
Meeny hey splueschy spuluschy int yor bad im zimmer.

Blezzingks unt gute kosher zentvitchess to yu beide.

I cannot go on, not another inch. This morning I was awakened by the most fearsome barrage of violence. It was as though Napoleon and Wellington had met on the field of battle, only Waterloo had transferred itself to my beautiful house. Never in my life have I heard such monstrous rippings and bangings and roarings. And then, just as I was about to call out a cautious ‘hello’, to let whoever it was know that I was at home, the earth moved. Someone or something had snatched up my computer and proceeded to shake it until I was nearly unconscious. My poor aching head must have whipped back and forth no fewer than a thousand times, and banged against the sides at least twice that many times. And do you know what happened next? The brute, for that’s what he was, speaking in the ugliest argot it has ever been my misfortune to hear, disparaged my beautiful computer, calling it a worthless piece of shit. My computer? A piece of shit? I’ll piece of shit him if I ever lay my hands on him!

I fear the brute totally ransacked my beautiful house. God only knows if any of my precious possessions still remain in one piece. As for me, he flung the computer into my junkroom. It cannot be anywhere else because of the ambiance. Oh, Forsythia, what am I going to do? If only my beloved squatters hadn’t deserted me like rates from a sinking ship? I simply do not know what is left for me?

I can’t go one, but I will prevail. I’m not a son of the revolution for nothing. Yes, I know, my paternal family, proudly resistant to a man, were introduced to Madame le Guillotine, but wasn’t it my mother’s great great great great great grandmamma who rose from the ashes of the terror and sold the teeth of all her friends and thus founded the family fortune in the ivory trade? I am my mother’s son. I will prevail. I will prevail. But in the mean time, if my letters sound disjointed and more passionate than usual, you will know why. - Thine, HWISGAAOMRIU®

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9.30 Chewing self-help software for my nerves
Subject: Not a Common Reisen

Dearest Darling Forsythia,

Your beloved SOG (how proud you must be to call her Mumsy) proved her sanctity once and for all by recognising the theological implications and subtleties to be found within the word “reissen”. Preferring to err on the side of caution, however, I would wish to point out, to her and whomever else is even the slightest bit interested, that we must never demonstrate our illiteracy by omitting so much as one “s” when using the sacred word. Anyone and his pet pig can “reisen”. Few are they who are chosen to “reissen” and yet live to tell about it. Not only that, but only those elevated beings who have achieved true and blissful pipettude™ or even pipettehood™ may bask in its fragrance.

Be that as it may, our beloved SOG must understand, though it pains me to speak of her so bluntly, that it is not her place to go about hither and yon issuing unfounded and unproven linguistic corrections. That was something the baser, more craven Mumsy might have been guilty of, but that was before she receive the gift of hymen reintactus beneficius perpetuum gluum™. Many are there who yearn to oversee her downfall; let neither you nor me not be among them. – HWISGAAOMRIU®
***

12.15 Envisioning a yawning chasm
Subject: Rhinoplasties

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



Do you realise that we are two among the blessed minority who can easily accommodate a rutting rhino in within our nasal passages? I find it immensely thrilling. However, what are we to do about the birds that ride on the rhinos’ backs, and with the horrible nasty barby insects that feed the birds that ride on the rhinos’ backs? And what of the rains that feed the rivers that make the ponds that make the mud that soothes the skin that houses the bugs that feed the birds that ride on the rhinos’ backs?

And what of the tourists who travel in Jeeps? What if they should be caught in the floods that are caused by the rains that feed the rivers that make the ponds that create the mud that soothes the skin that houses the bugs that feed the birds that ride on the rhinos’ backs? And what of the cakes that feed the tourists who travel in jeeps who are caught in the floods that are caused by the rains that feed the rivers that makes the ponds that create the mud that soothes the skin that houses the bugs that feed the birds that ride on the rhinos’ backs?

And what of the chefs that bake the cakes?

And what of the women who bear the children who grow into the chefs?

And what of the girls who become the women who bear the children?

And what of the dollies that play with the girls who become the women?

And what of the dogs that eat the dollies that play with the girls?

And what of the grass that chokes the dogs that eat the dollies?

And what of the rhinos that roll in the grass that chokes the dogs?

And what of the noses that house the rhinos that roll in the grass?

So much time. So few questions. - HWISGAAOMRIU®

***



14.56 Eating the wax from my ears
Subject: Little Red Things

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



Have you recently spied any tiny red things where they ought not to be? Have you considered that they are and what they might be doing? No? Well, permit me to enlighten you.

There is almost nothing a tiny red thing cannot do. For example, in a nonce, it might eat your heart out. Or it might splash bleach on to your newest Versace chemisier, the one with the artistically hand-painted rutabagas frolicking across the shantung bodice. Or it might whisper suggestions of a numerical order into the ear of a pining loved one. Or it might sneak into your kitchen in the dead of night and east the last of your chocolate truffle torte. Or it might invade your computer and add decimal points where they ought not to be. Or it might make inappropriate telephone calls to numbers with shoddy prefixes. Or it might masquerade as your mother-in-law at the local Women’s Institute fundraiser and fart in unfortunate places. Or it might eat the glue attaching the soles to your favourite pair of Manolo’s. Or it might send substantial financial pledges in your name to an obscure and obnoxious religious organisation. Or it might conceal a kidney or three in the centre of your lunchtime frozen amaretto surprise. Or it might advertise a World Cup Final at your address and offer free tickets to the first thousand England supporters through the gate. Or it might write to leftwing newspapers under your name espousing the cancellation of farm subsidies and promoting a National Eat Amurkun Genetically Modified Fat People Day. Or it might do just about anything.

Watch out for tiny red things. - HWISGAAOMRIU®

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17.23 More acute intestinal cramps
Subject: Suspicions

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



Don’t panic, but I suspect something is wrong with me. I mean besides my physical circumstance. I am suddenly blacking out and awakening to find that various parts of my body have been nibbled upon. Please send some sort of help if you can, because I’m either not alone or my psychological and physiological health is worse than I thought. Whichever is the case, I would welcome your reasoned interdiction. - HWISGAAOMRIU®

***

17.03 My finger pedal digits are disappearing
Subject: Your Communication

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



I am taking the unusual precaution of retaining your epistle within the body of this reply. This action is the direct result of the Anti-Memory Seminars I have been attending online. I now find that without your textual wisdom in front of me, I have no recollection whatsoever of who you are, much less what you have written. Therefore, you must search the following content for examples of my mystical teachings regards your pitiless soundings:

Ø What id th diffrents brtween little rud thongs end thr faereys in thr fardybook? Squishy type?

In reply, I do not really feel that now is the optimum time to invest in squishy Ferraris. September would be better, in time for the autumnal colours and lower rents on the Riviera. You would be advised to take into account your burgeoning bra size and, at all times, to placate your groaning buns.

Ø apologied for having lit tibe run by witoud comminicatting. Little non-red thaks have get in thr way.

“When Time Runs By”… Wasn’t that a song in a Humpy Bighert movie, “To Heave or Heave Not? I remember adoring “To Heave or Heave Not”, especially the part where the hero and Lady Burlap drown while having oral sex in the communal anchovy vat. Or was it sur d’anchois? I have a feeling they were not sufficiently French in their loins (or tongues), and that a number of people complained about it afterwards. Hélas, such a film wouldn’t be allowed in Chlamydeous®. The censor, who is also the director of marketing in her spare time, has little enough time for fripperies as it is. Besides, she is suffering from gout and ennui, as a result of a life lived too fully. Be that as it may, my heart is breaking. Would you be good enough to extend a virtual arm into my cauldron of malevolence and massage it?

Ø thank your fer ricummundink “The Dumb Bnunnies”. Iya notshur whach chericter tu ibendify with.

Most probably the oatmeal or the underwear. Either would be suitable for morning wear.

Ø will b sindinh yop comethinf equellt spiririual.

Please, if you are planning to send me anything, let it be one of our Miraculous Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata™ Scented Perpetual Life Incorruptible Candles® and Multi-Purpose Appliances®. Please, please. I’m soooo depressed, and my sex toys don’t appear to be working any more.

Ø littlr vice callink. Dsrlin= Dophis wanmt het linch. Mite latwr. – F.Featherstonehawe,Procureuse

What is there left to say, except that I shall send my love to all, except for those for whom a polite handshake would be more appropriate. - HWISGAAOMRIU®

***

20.32 Hallelujah, I’m insane
Subject: Passion Omelettes

Dearest Darling Forsythia,



I have been reviewing the plans for our unspeakably and immodestly upscale eatery, LUST®, and am in complete agreement that the location, in an inverted pyramid atop the Louvre pyramid, is tres chic to the ULTIMATE FUCKING MAX! I am gratified to see that we are intent upon keeping it totally restricted to only the beautiful and corrupt and rich and trendy and anonymous, but could we please place a quota on the Amurkuns and Engulsh. There are far too many of them out of doors for comfort, and they obviously feel they have a God-given right to possess all those aforementioned traits and more besides. It makes them common and far too flatulent for our needs. Perhaps if we ask them politely to sit a geology exam, one requiring complex socio-economic adenoids starting from March 1242AD (or is it CE). I am so bored and complacent with the pox-ridden and fat of the world.

Here I must interrupt myself most incommodiously, for a fervent question has arisen which only you in your legaltude can answer. And don’t laugh, I’m being serious, probably more serious than I have ever been in my tragically inebriated life. Please tell me what is “AD” means. I’ve seen it for years, probably since the first day I was born, and certainly before I ever learned how to read or reason. What is it? It’s always there, always popping up after random numbers, but no one ever tells me why. They don’t even tell me what the random numbers are for. “AD”? I mean, why, in the middle of a perfectly decent sentence, do they suddenly write (for example) 2001AD (I won’t even go into 2001CE because it’s rude sounding and shouldn’t have been written in the first place)? Could it have been some secretary’s initials, as in Ardulla Dullard typed this 2001 times, only she was so dumb she couldn’t remember one is supposed to put a comma between the 2 and the first 0? Could it stand for “Annoying Dickhead”, as in I was writing this perfectly decent sentence and then you farted and I lost my concentration, you annoying dickhead? That sounds reasonable to me, but you’re the lawyer as well as a pretty well paid judge. If you can’t help me, then all is lost.

I am now extremely hungry, but you don’t seem to care. You think that if I eat I’ll get fat, and if I get fat, I’ll be stuck in here forever. I’m so desperate I would like to say Fuck you, you frog’s anus, but I won’t since I’m unconsciously polite.

Now that I’ve got that out of my system, I shall digress no more, at least for the time being, and shall continue with the matter at hand. LUST®. More precisely, the menu for LUST®.

Are you dead set on the caviar menu? I mean, everyone serves Beluga and Sevruga and golden and Marais du Seine and those cheap plastic thingies one finds in fish tanks. Boring boring boring! If we can’t do edgy, then fuck us! Caviar are eggs, right? Eggs! Well, if we’re going to do eggs, we’ve got to blow their fucking minds! We’ve got to make it, like, no one will know what the fuck’s going on, like. Scotch eggs are nothing but chicken caviar wrapped in a layer of sausage and fried, right? Well how about we, like, take assorted caviar from two hundred dozen miscellaneous species, colour them every colour (as long as we don’t use last year’s palate or anything from the 1970s) and arrange them conceptually in an edible Faberge egg? Quite naturally, this latter creation will resemble the customer’s favourite sexual fantasy. A simple idea, perhaps too simple for our taste, yet maximalist enough to satisfy the most discerning eye. Trust me! Garnish with a soupçon a sea salt. A splash of seawater. Arrange in a little Lalique bowl. A little crystal spoon. Even an ostrich egg on the side as a chaser. Talk about sex on the fucking floor!

What we got here, babe, is taste. Fucking taste. And you know what taste is? Taste is a fucking license to print money.

Ah, yes, I almost forgot (it’s those fucking seminars - they’re driving me crazy), we did take delivery of that oil rig you wanted for our exclusive boutique hotel. The number-crunchers should adore your decision to give it not only an unlisted number, but an unlisted address in an unlisted location, as well. A fucking genius you are! I am playing around with logistics here, but it might work out for guests to check in at The Little Red Things Guest House and B&B® in Southend-on-Sea (fucking brilliant – it’s the last place on fucking earth anyone would be caught checking in to), whereupon they will be summarily attacked, blindfolded, injected with bilious substances to make their minds wander, and spirited away with gratuitous violence in (sequentially though in no particular order) a 1956 Peugeot, a helicopter, cigarette boat, barge, garbage scow, a tramp steamer circa 1912, and, last but not least, a sperm whale. Their final destimation? The Secret Nameless Location®! Once there, they will be immediately subjected to outrageous luxury and excruciating discomfort, as befits only the truly truly chic to the fucking max.

I trust I do not have to remind you that this information is strictly FYO. Understood? I hate to think what I would have to do if you told anyone, especially our director of marketing, who is – let’s face it – nothing if not a common slut and tedious pillock and should have bee shot at birth.

One small suggestion. Shouldn’t the penthouse be surmounted by a two hundred metre high Miraculous Amostasanta Ruchl™ Immaculata™ Ultimata ™ Shrine® Pet Cemetary® and Chinese Hand Laundry®?

You have not mentioned the director of marketing by name for some time. Are there subtle reasons for this or is it because you cannot actually remember what her name is? Is it deliberate subterfuge? - HWISGAAOMRIU®