Dear White Girl Who Sings As If She Were Black,

Sweetie, take off that ridiculous hat and stop swaying the generous hips you haven’t got. You’ve neither soul, nor the faculties to express it. Everyone thinks you’re a poseur, including your black boyfriend.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir or Madam,

I was once accused, you know. Of murder, rather. Really though, is there any other type of accusation worth going on about? Paternity perhaps, but I only talk of this particular accusal, because I happened to be innocent. A novelty, to be sure.

Certainly it would have been in vogue to be amongst the ‘haute meurtre’ scene going on at the time. Rubbing elbows with smart chaps like Darby O’Kingers, who ate people’s fingers. He was untouchable in his heyday.

But alas, what occurred was merely a funny misunderstanding. It seems a messenger boy was found in front of the New York brownstone I occasionally autumn in — and his head was not, you see. In the days leading up to the crime, it was widely known that a misfortune had befallen me, regarding a business partner absconding with a great percentage of my capital, so naturally it was this boy’s task to inform yours faithfully, the last to know. It was thus assumed that I’d sent him back with the most effective message of his career, by relieving him of his freckled head. [My legal counsel has advised me to add that I only assume he had freckles. It is a common trait of victims in my experience.]

As it turned out, the real culprits were two local children who had been playing with bicycles and razor wire, in the usual way. They were, in due course, forced to fight to the death and then the winner was fined twice what she was worth. The subsequent dip in notoriety for me was annoying, so I revealed that the alleged business partner was, in fact, myself under an alias! A self-embezzlement. A novelty, to be sure.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir or Madam,

I have forever been an admirer of animals, though, alas, never an owner of one. It is a curious sort of fascination. I myself forfeited the right to defecate wherever I fancied at a very young age, so I suppose this is why I regard those proud, naked beasts of so-called domestication that I encounter with reverence and a sort of envy.

I was at a party recently. Of course, I’m always at a party recently. The occasion was a response to the wake of Sir Edward Johnson George, for those who were glad he was dead. I happened to be indifferent to the demise of Sir Eddy-John, but I also happened to be courting one of his ex-wives. Her name escapes me at the moment, but she has honey-blonde hair and a honey-sweet arse to match, which at the time was nestled snugly within the brilliant white gown she’d worn to the affair. However, as she made her grand entrance, my ogling oculars were immediately indisposed.

What had seized my attention, and in fact completely obliterated all thoughts of my caprice with the woman, was the animal which she had in her accompaniment: a dwarf arctic wolf, reigned in with an ivory handled leash. Panting desperately in the summer humidity, its undulating mouth echoing the guffaws of its owner. An absolutely beautiful animal it was, obviously bored to icy tears by the carouse, humanity, everything.

Having spotted what was clearly the most interesting creature in the room, I lowered myself to all fours — the knees of my ivory suit be damned — in order to address it on its level. The beast turned its gaze from its apathetic rival, a baby albino Komodo dragon brought by Graham Jannsen the attorney, and offered me a welcoming sniff. “Hallo, Wolf,” I said.
“Hallo, Gentleman,” the wolf responded genially.
“Would you mind terribly if I were to give you just a good-natured pat on the head?” I boldly asked.
“Why of course not!” laughed the wolf, bowing, “Go right ahead.”

And as I extended my gloved hand, in a fraction of an instant, I found that it had been gnawed asunder by the animal. Retracting my butchered appendage with a cry of surprise and delight, I exclaimed, “Whatever did you do that for?”
“Because I am a wolf,” replied the wolf simply.

It was then that I drew my revolver and decorated the parlor with my offender’s inner strata, adding, “Well, I am The Gentleman.” This act was not particularly well received by the other guests, considering we were all wearing white, but I was later applauded for swapping Sir Gordon’s corpse with that of the wolf, which was buried in his place. I have forever been an admirer of animals, yes, but perhaps it is for the best that I have never been an owner of one. It is of my opinion that the startling presence of a stuffed and mounted Eddy-John is all the companionship one needs.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir or Madam,

Although you and I are not terribly familiar yet (I’d have you use the service entrance and the corrugated fiberchina were you to dine at my estate), I believe it is safe to assume that you have a father — or at least a serendipitously endowed mother. Father, from the Latin ‘pater,’ meaning father. The father provides a seed within your mother’s loins and then another within your mind. A seed of means and promise. Unless, of course, your birth was illegitimate. Then you’re just some twice-fucked doomchild. Do take steps to prevent this from having had happen to you.

My own father was a Gentleman, as was his father before him. I, however, was fortunate enough not to inherit the indefinite article. Father instructed me in the ways of tact and dignity and generally avoiding buttfacery, I mostly listened. One time, he took me hunting. Another time, we went to the circus. Actually, now that I think of it, that might have been the same time. Father and I parted ways amicably at age eleven (I was nine) though we still chat now and again. I hung around with some other fathers after that, but now I’m trying to get better acquainted with me.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir or Madam,

As the ascetics of India have often said, “It is good to beg[in].” And thus I begin. I have deemed this humourish cartoonograph series worthy of my auspices, and this venture shall mark the course upon which I shall steer my yacht of prosperity and consummate genius into the World Wide Waters. I am The Gentleman — in a gentry unto myself. It is a pleasure for you to make my acquaintance.

I am put in mind of a time before, when I was still ‘un gentilhomme incorporel.’ In my middle-youth, I was known to frequent the local fairs, which the common people would often hold as a form of penance or something. The air would be thick with the odour of vomit and salt and the vomiting salts that people in those days would take for amusement and health. The children would cut free from their mother skirts and consume syrups and saccharines until they collapsed twitching to bake in the August sun. Coloured ribbons would be awarded to the farmer with the largest fruit/vegetable/goiter/wife. It was there, amidst the sparkle and spectacle, that I began my long-standing relationship with my first love — deep-fried snuff — without which I would surely not be your Gentleman to-day.

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site