Sunday, June 4, 2006

Column #1

Welcome once again, little figgyies. It is I, your beloved Finknottle-comma-Augustus-comma-Sir. First off the top, we must assault the topic of ravenous Editors. When you little ones grow up and have editors of your own, you will need to distance your selves from their vaccuum-like clutches. Protect your privacey as best you can, but you will eventualley need to confronte the reality that you cannot hide, even in your vast estates abroad. He will send Messengers, Courriers, Runners and phalanxes of telegrammes. He will appear to you in your sleep, his claws rifling you bedclothes for your columns and notes. He cares not for your privacy or your dreams.

My dreams tonight are, as they usually are, of my Ascension to the Throne of Reunified France-China. They were torn apart by the politicians in the scandalous Treaty of Anti-Utrecht, and the hard-won empire skattered to the fifteen duchies. But then enters on this wind-swept scene Yours Truley, with his doublet whipping in the wind, astride an armoured large-miniature African Rhino. Usually I have a poisoned rocket-powered missle-sword. Sometimes it is a dagger-array that flings 42 blades at once.

Either way, I ride into the royal courts at all fifteen Douchies and separate the Prime Ministeres from their respective heads. Then I proclaime the New Peace, which is frankly a lot like the old peace only with Self as the titular icon at the top of the old food chain. Then a rain of toades confirms my Ascenscion has gained favor with all the gods, including the Pagan, Greek, Roman and Christian ones, and general singing and merriment breaks out. This lasts almost a quarter of an hour until my first dazzling Proclamation of Martial Law, sweeping in it's scope, hideously unfair to everyone in equal measure, is read aloud by a chorus of brainwashed servants of the former regimes, their feet firmly encased in hard clay.

It's a standard dream, one that many people have on a nightly basis.

My theory, and I thought this was quite sound, was to put the questions last.

My Uncle worked for Liverputty, back when it was the official organ of the Alkemichal Society for the Advancement of Superstition and Fear. We used to publish a new recipie for Gold every week. Now my task is to use words to solve the populous's problems. I should have thought there no better way to solve problems than to turn household items into gold, but this 'talking therapie' is all the rage now. Let no one say Augustus 'Finky' Finknottle doesn't change with the times. And even the venerable Liverputty building no longer houses the liver-reduction and processing machines. The bottomless pit that took a dozen generations of proofreader-interns to dig has been filled in. So be it. This concerns us not today. On to the Letters!

Our first plaintive missive comes from the Americas, perhaps the North half. Read on:

I can't write much here today, hasn't the hurricane season already started. I am more aware of this than ever before. I know I need to do something about it, but I don't know what exactly. I worry about this even though I do not live near that Atlantic. I don't have time to prepare a decent meal for myself, I will have to go through one of those fast food drive through windows, what other choice do I have? I am too busy to exercise, I can't respond to every single email. Where does all of this time go? Modern conveniences were supposed to create more time for us to do other things, where did it all go wrong? Thanks for listening, I feel better.

Party Poker

Yes, the Hurricanes are a worry, and the ghastly food-windowes are a constant source of trial and unhappiness. In a perfect world I would be given a budget of a Quintillione Dollars hard cash to build and maintain a ginormous wall around the country that was hurricane-proof, earthquake-resistant and rain-of-toade capable. It would encircle all the populated areas and give shelter to all the sea creatures displaced by the stormes. It would dispense gourmet dishes and palatable foodes from its 300 million individual foode-windowes.

But sadly even if the budget were there, I am busy with other concerns. I must salvage my official royal title from the hands of my unscrupulous attourney who mortgaged my Earldom to pay his fees. (He is slated to die under completely explainable circumstances in a future episode.)

Then there is the constant rain of wadded-up banknotes from defunct regimes flung through my window containing threates and mean wordes from the unpaid Opium merchants I associate with. (If you have ever tried to find really good Opium that does not cause Freak-out without consulting a licensed merchant, you understand my situation and/or pickle.)

Then there is the public shame of having been rejected in my quest for a patent for Scalpium, a runny liquide that turns dandruffe into Gold.

"Oh, yes," I hear you say, "the problems of the Upper Classe must be rough indeed. You whine about your wayward Earlitude when I have just this morn sold my last two children to feed the pig." The pointe is well taken, Dear Listener. The bigger the Earl, the bigger the problems, I suppose. And I am not without a heart.

Next question:


1 comment:

Editor said...

Anonymous harry said...

"Sometimes, for reasons obscure even to himself, a man must lie in filth, stoned to the gills, absent from his job, penniless and stinking of gin with pocketfulls of gravel."

Finally someone understands me.

2:25 PM