Dear Sir or Madam,

You must forgive me for being so very absent this past week. I’m sure your days felt as empty and meaningless as mine never do. You see, my staff ornithologist informed me that this past week did not augur well, so I’ve been laying low in the root cellar, reading my serialized Wodehouse and trying to get a buzz off of year-old parsnips. For your trouble, here are two stock comics with only one letter in accompaniment. I know how much you prefer bright, colourful pictures to dirty, ugly words. I cannot promise that such a delay will not happen again or that I will feel genuine sympathy those times (or this time), but I can promise that by the time you finish this sentence, you will have legally forfeited your right to be angry.

Yours Occasionally, The Gentleman of the Site

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is inevitable that whilst following the innumerable avenues of conversation, the discussion will turn to conversation itself — words, phrases, and sentences. It’s such a common occurrence, it’s not even considered meta. It’s not even considered pretentious. Actually, most times, it’s not even considered at all. However, when one is in company as excruciatingly garrulous as I was nearly one year ago, it is often best to bury oneself in deep thoughts and befriend the words one is assaulted with, lest they consume your very heart.

Truly a lovely couple of characters are Ms. Mulgahe Townsend and her devoted brother Franklin, with whom I spent an evening last November. So close are these siblings, that many members of their social sphere assume them to be husband and wife. This is understandable, as one is almost never seen apart from the other. Also they sleep together and have sex and have twenty-four ugly children.

After a decidedly pleasant meal of eggs and pérfaan at my flat, I suggested we discover the local cinema, and as we walked, the pair engaged themselves in a lukewarm debate about the correct pronunciation of the word “facetious.” “Now, Mulgahe, we know what a facet is, don’t we? Like those of the emerald brooch I bought you for your birthday. And we know that this word is pronounced with a hard ‘t’.”
“Yes, Franklin, but when paired with an ‘i’, the ‘t’ makes a shushing sound as in ‘petition’ or ‘defenestration.’”
“Don’t forget ‘masturbation,’” I added facetiously.
“Heaven forbid,” said Franklin, “I’m sorry, but I just like the idea of saying that Uncle Herbert’s face is as facet-ious as a Chinese golf ball.”
“Now, that’s not even the correct definition, Franklin. — ‘Defintion.’ That’s another shushy word. — And for God’s sake, why Chinese?”
“I don’t know. Everything there is more. There’s so many of them… Wait. Do they have golf in China, Gentleman?”
“Given their population, I’d say there’s little room for decent courses. In any event, we are arrived.”

The brittle yet constricting fibers of dialogue gave away under the bright lights of the marquee. It was my hope that the darkness and enforced silence of the theatre would quell further prattling, but unfortunately there was still the matter of selecting a picture. “Children of Men,” Franklin read, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “That’s absurd. Men cannot have children.”
After a moment Mulgahe agreed, “No, I don’t think they can.”
“Do you suppose… they mean… poop?” suggested Franklin.
“Now, I hardly think they can justify filling two hours with poop,” said Mulgahe.
“Obviously you’ve never seen— ” and I can’t remember exactly how I completed that sentence, but I can assure you it was the funniest thing that could have been said.

The Townsends were amused and, for a time, blessedly silent as we enjoyed the film. Actually, only Mulgahe enjoyed it, because she is sexually aroused by Sir Michael Caine. Franklin was disappointed because the plot did not touch on how the dip in global population had affected China’s stance on golf. Personally, I couldn’t reconcile mass infertility with dystopia. Sounds like a right good time to me.

I voiced this opinion and Franklin immediately corrected me that the word is pronounced “di-stop-ia,” “because everything stops,” he said. I graciously agreed and began to mentally list all the words that rhyme with “imbecile.” There are none. Perhaps in Chinese?

Yours Faithfully, The Gentleman of the Site