Tuesday, September 29, 2009

fashionable faux-pas

Dearest Diary,

S.U.t.W. In shockingly unexpected news, Young Siward may not be such a bad chap after all. Not that I am forgoing my plan to destroy him, but I might feel a little more remorse after I do. I do not foresee, however, the event causing me to add to my tear-jar collection...though with my fertile ducts one never knows.

Y.S. is, despite his corrupted rust bucket of a soul, a most snappy dresser. Without any ulterior motive that I can glean, he complimented me on my most exquisite jacket...you know the one, diary, the one with the slimming lines and svelte charcoal wool construction, the manly epaulets and bold buttons. It is a fine jacket. One that has a thoroughly tough military pedigree yet with a lacy, electric blue liner that gently envelops me in satiny warmth. the kind of jacket that gains the affection of a lady...and apparently, Young Siward.

Apparently, Y.S. is quite the connoisseur of fine haberdashery. We had a three minute conversation about leather jackets that almost left me feeling something like an affinity towards the young, swarthy chap. I must not let this blind me though, many people appreciate clean lines, fitted cuts, and the fine art of pairing patterns and colors in bold but tasteful ways...
I must flaunt my jacket in front of Lady MacD. If the jacket inspired admiration in my most devoted enemy, imagine what it could fill my dulce de Mac-leche with :) !

yours in color-coordination,

Friday, September 25, 2009

Rain (or lack there of) Dance

Dear Diary,
I have momentarily put aside the rancorous ire Young Siward doth arouse in me in favor of a much more dastardly aversary: the weather.
Diary, how am I supposed to woo the Titania of my bottomless tenders when the RAIN WILL NOT STOP!? Diary, I apologize for the yelling (no such apologies for the implied interrobang, however), but I feel so powerless. My plans for lady MacD have been laid out with the care my gentle mother took in dressing me after a fragrant bath, yet despite EVERY effort the threat of incliment weather continues to dash the delicate song bird of my hopes against the moisty rock of...of...oh diary, I am so frustrated my metaphors are all in a tizzy!
I shall have to perform a "lack-of-rain dance." I am left with no other recourse. I am a desperate man-child Diary and my wilyness is to be feared. Cook said that she...he...

*On a very disturbing side-note, I am in doubt of Cook's gendered identity. She has the soft, supple hands of a matronly mammy yet with the deep, rich vocal timbre of a man. He has often nuzzled me and her few protruding whiskers poked and irritated my delicate skin, yet I did not recoil in discomfort because of the warm, cushy embrace of its bosomy voluptiosness...terrible thoughts.

ANYWAYS Cook has said that chicken feet brought to a slow boil, smothered in velvetta, and doused in the tears of an innocent will provide a charm that may be employed in the ritual. I am loathe to delve into my collection of chronologically itemized tear jars, but I suppose the situation warrants. I must take the charm and do a dance (Cook was non-specific...I hope my "excited dance" will count as that is the only dance I know besides the "Lindy Hop") that SHOULD forestall the heavenly precipitation that has been plaguing my efforts.
Well, Diary, wish me luck!

With love,

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Influenza blues (with a boozy upside)

Dearest Diary,

Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt that Young Siward is evil, but never doubt, though temporarily absent, I love (well, I wouldn't really doubt the "Young Siward is evil" part)!

Diary, oh my little papyrus homunculus, I am ill! Well, actually, I am recovering, but STILL! Oh, the influenza always brings out the poet in me :sigh:.

Diary I have laid in my downy comforter for five straight days! Cook has brought me copious amounts of chicken soup, "Scrumptious Good Times," and beets. I wanted blueberry pamcakes, but Cook says that they would make my dainty stomach "uncomfortable." Diary, non of these normally glorious foodstuffs have brought me any comfort. I lounged in my silk jammies moping and stroking Frederick's abandoned home (I get sentimental when sick) hoping that my sweet- MY "Scrumptious Good Time" would come and visit her poor, courtly lover. Alas, I was left to cough and sniffle in silence. Diary, I honestly don't know how much of my moisture stained hanky is from post-nasal drip or tears. I do not know. I. do. not. know.

There was one upside, Father introduced me to a most interesting beverage: a "Hot Toddy." Diary, this little drink was a miracle! Father would not tell me what went in to this veritable witches brew of warm, fuzzy delight. I suspect father must get sick a lot, for there was something in the Toddy that reminded me of the way father smells when I sneak into his bed for warmth in the winter-time. What strange dreams were produced by this magical concoction!

My dream was so vivid! I awoke terrified, but laughed the dream off as silly and ridiculous. Still, the over-wrought and sickly manifestations of my brain caused me considerable distress. I dreamed that father had been murthered! And by Uncle Macbeth no less! On the plus side, when I discovered this, Lady MacD pressed her "Rolled Bureks" to me in a show of comfort. I cried because I was so emotionally conflicted! Then I sat around for a while, and then I was in England for some reason and was absolutely horrid to Macduff (though he probably deserved it for leaving lady MacD alone).

It was then that I received the worse news of all! My Dulcet Peach had been murthered as well! Diary, I was crushed beyond belief! But, oh Diary, the strangeness only continued to occur. On hearing of my dear one's death, Frederick's progeny erupted into a veritable mane of animalistic proportions! My voice dropped an entire octave! And I even engaged in physical warfare. Diary, you could not imagine my surprise when I wielded a knife in mortal combat...though I slashed no one I can remember, surely my manly conquests outnumbered the imaginatively prevalent hairs on my dream-induced chest. Then, lo and behold, father had returned in the guise of an old, swarthy Englishman...Old Siward (Young Siward's "father"). This was a most disturbing plot-twist and one from which I dare not dwell (except that nobody save me seemed to care much about Y.S. demise...which I maintain was because I wanted to do him in myself).

It all ended with me becoming king of Scotland. The end. Nothing more. There was nothing else that happened...nothing.

Anyway, I think we have all learned a valuable lesson about how wonderful and calamitous Hot Toddies are.

Yours in absolute, no-holdsbarred truth,


OH DIARY, I cannot lie to you! Something else did happen. In the dream Macduff tenderly placed his arm on mine to pronounce me king of Scotland...and I felt...a connection. I don't know what that means, but I am frightened. Nevertheless, I am determined to pursue the more feminine of the two Macduffs until Birnum Wood do come to Dunsinane.

The Follies Of Going Outdoors

Dearest Diary,

It has been too long since I last clutched your quivering pages 'tween forefinger and thumb. And it is too long still, for I hold you this evening not in my bare spindly hands, but with my phalanges ensconced in elbow-length sheaths made of rubber. That these decidedly tasteless gloves are accented with little plastic daisies is of no comfort. Nor does it bring me joy that these not-fingers are a pleasant and matte shade of purple.

But it must be so, dear Diary. Father claims. And it is all the fault of my adventurous spirit.

You see, the other day, I decided to take a walk in the south garden. Yes, out in the open air! I should have known so much better! But my mind was feverish with decisionings about Lady MacDuff and the merits of chin foliage and Young Siward's dastardliness and Lady MacDuff ...

Where was I? Ah, of course, out in the south garden, in the carefully spaced rows of dandelion and rutabaga that my dear sainted Mother tended right until the very end. Though she has been gone all these many years, the billowy little dandelions are still just dandy. So ... feeling spritely for a moment ... I did as I would when I was smaller. I bent at the waist to pluck the best dandelion I could find, to make a wish upon a right good blow.

Yet after a bit of tuggly struggle -- during which I failed to detach from the earth my dandy of choice -- I fell chin-ward into a nearby clump of rutabagas. One of those ornery little root-fruits nearly lodged in my nose, and would've done so, had I not sneezed immediately, righting myself in the process. Were it not for that moment of dandelion fluff induced nasal propulsion, I might've stayed there, chin-thrust unto the damp topsoil. Few recognize the benefits of being incredibly svelte and slight, after all.

But soon thereafter, dear Diary, did I find myself swooning. With no small amount of effort, I stumbled back toward the south-wing portico and my ever-faithful fainting couch. Sadly, this was not my daily fit that comes regularly at 2pm, but something altogether more profound.

In those few scant moments of gardentry, I managed to contract .... Le Grippe. Coughing, aching, sneezing, running of the nose, fever, shakes, poetry, clamminess. All do afflict me and cause me more grief than that of a Slav clad in scratchy burlap pants.

And worse still, dear Diary, is that Father threatened to take you from me. Muttering something about "blasted Scarlet Fever," I overheard him ordering cook to steal you away, to be tossed out with the evening's oven-leavings. He said you were probably the root of all my ills. When I found you missing that evening, I wailed like a sore-throated banshee. Which is to say, meekly.

But not to worry Diary, as through a series of hand gestures and hand-written signs, I was able to convince the visiting Lady Lennox to distract cook for just long enough to pluck you from the refuse. I called out to her quietly when I'd retrieved you -- as well as these protective mitts that were nearby -- but she didn't answer to accept my gratitude. Cook wasn't to be found either.

In other news, my recuperative pancakes looked particularly festive this morning, what with those smiley faces emblazoned on each with syrup. Almost lascivious, they were, so I could not meet their gaze. I did, however, eat them. Yum.

And so, Diary, I will hide you between my mattress and box-spring. Wish me well, as I do hope my humours will align such that I can dispense with these elastic barriers and hold you close once more.

Yours, albeit prophylactically,
Sniffly Prince Malcolm.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Someone ELSE has been reading my Diary...

...and drawing cartoons of it! Of course they didn't get it right, I know no "Jeremy"...it was Benson.


The Pursuit of Hirsutery

Dearest Diary,

I must again unfurl the flagon of my pigeony bosom into your waiting and cotton-bonded ears. You know, more than does any other, about the sufferings I have endured at the witty end of Young Siward's coarse-hewn wit and ne'er bending wrist. And likewise, know your leafy pages of the curious longings I emit nightly and secretly into these my dainty pillows of down -- down plucked from geesery both Icelandic and Hungarian -- in honor of the divine Lady MacD. At the crossroads where those two dire concerns converge, there lies a conundrum. And yes, this might be a bigger conundrum than those that fill the Conundrumming Coffer hidden neath my chifferobe. Bigger than "Why makes Father that painful look when I do squeal with delight?" or "Why does Cook have but four fingers on one hand and six on the other?"

You see, my Sweet Sheaf of Mutterings, I have in my possession, a peculiar device given me by my dear Father. When I say "Given," I should perhaps clarify. One morning, I decided to visit Father in his chambers. Cook was delayed in pancake preparation and I had urgent questions about the nature of bee copulation. Befuddled by hunger and curiosity, I forgot entirely Father's usual admonition about keeping a wide berth from the master suite. You can imagine his surprise when I strode in, bold as brass, interrupting him as he did scrape a razor across his manly stubble, laden as it was with lathery foam. "Yowch!", did he cry as the razor fumbled to the vanity with a clatter. I'd no idea Father was so learned and bilingual, as he immediately and loudly spoke such things as I'd ne'er heard. It was in that instant, that I forgot my apiary concerns. For while Father staunched his chin boo-boo with a monogrammed towel -- quite a lot of blood, does my Father have in him -- I found myself transfixed by an object on dear Mother's still undusted dressing table.

It gleamed, positively, this remarkable artifact. A handle of white. A ring of gold, though not a solid ring. More springlike, I suppose you'd say. And there, on its fuselage, written the name of the craftsman who brought it forth. And let me say now, Mister E. Pilady, you do beautiful work.

No sooner had I reached for it, had Father bequeathed the object lovingly and efficiently into my hands, right before he bequeathed me similarly into the chamber hallway. My tum was still empty, my concerns about the placement of stingers still concerned me, but none of that mattered near as much as this veritable Excalibur of personal hygiene held now in my spindly grip.

When I showed Cook my new inanimate charge, the reply was a shriek, followed by a turning away. The poor dear was too thrilled for words, I suppose. From what I've been able to gather, dear Diary, this device is meant to rid one of unsightly foliage, perhaps like the kind that doth sprout and congregate from time to time on my prominent chin.

So seeing as a tool is only worth having if it is also worth using, I have a decision to make. Do I take destiny by the plasticine handle and rid my facial regions of its manifestations? After all, such is the look maintained by my rival, Young Siward. 'Tis true he is a brigand, having not barely enough of the Gainesville strain to keep him walking erect among real men. But there is something unmistakably capital about his denuded chin. Makes him almost aerodynamic.

But what of Mister Macduff, dear Diary? What of him? For he doth ever groom the productive issue of his lower mandible, and did so even on that dreariest of days when he did tie the nuptual knot with the She of my heart's heart's heart's desire. After all, the magnificient Lady MacD found the likes of that beardage attractive enough to breathe her "I do." (Crush my heart, you do ...) So do I dare prune my own attempt at fuzzy rakishness?

If only you could speak, dear Diary mine, you could give me direction, tell me where to stand and what to do! But alas, you remain as quiet and as patient as ever. And so, I will nap the afternoon away, with you at my bedside and Dr. Pilady's Device tucked in with me for a contemplative nuzzle.

Perhaps when I wake, I will know my fate.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Moving Day


My mid-morning festivities have been ruined! I was curled up under a mountain of blankets, with only my dainty nose protruding, watching Cary Elwes videos when Father came bursting in the room and told me, "for the love of whatever slight degree of manliness you posses, get your clothes on and get to work!"

It was moving day dear Diary! And just for the record, all exclamation points from here on out are not motivated by my customary jubilant glee but a most poignant angst. Father was receiving a new shipment of Slavs and forced me to help them move their stuff. Ugh. Why do we have to keep Slavs in the first place? It's not like the historic rosemary bush takes much looking after!

They come with all their babushkas and sad, shuffling dirges, their hand-made marbles and their borsht. I don't want to be racialist dear Diary, but what are they doing here? Father says that they are "hired workers," but they never seem to leave! Normally when one does a job, one goes home at the end of the day...right? But they NEVER LEAVE!

I believe they may be a bad influence on me! They drink funny tasting water out by the shed (it doesn't really smell like anything, looks like water, but it tastes like skinning your knee!) They gamble with their homemade marbles, and try to get me to eat their strange cuisine. They do have one dish I enjoy, however, "rolled burek." I don't know what a burek is or why they roll it, but Diary, it tastes unbelieveable (*FYI dearest Diary, my exclamation points have now become marks connotating succulant delight*)! Oh diary, I salivate at the thought of their supple baked bread mounds enveloping such tender, seasoned meats! Sometimes they come in pairs; sometimes there are scallions, Dear Diary, SCALLIONS! I am suddenly reminded of Lady MacD. Hm...odd. Perhaps I have solved my previous entry's delimma?

"rolled burek?"



Tuesday, September 15, 2009


Since it's such a bleak, bleary, rainy day, I brought my Scrumptious Good Times Snickerdoodles right up back to you my dearest diary. This way, we can enjoy the loveliness of snuggling up in a cozy tent made up of all of my favorite blankies, and write my poetry in SECRET.

There now. Isn't that nice? Normally on days such as this, I would be pop in "The Thornbirds" (OMG, that movie just makes me BAWL) but Father has recently put the kibosh on ALL films or television involving Richard Chamberlain. With that rule in place, I might as well watch nothing at all!

First things first. If I'm to win the heart of my Dusky Mistress with verse, I must find something just as poetic and lovely to describe her...well, demesnes if you will, as the fluffy pink pillows of her lips. The best way to go about this, most understanding and indulgent of diaries, is to list all the things that make me THINK of Lady McD's...erm...flower petals.
  • Tootsie Pops

  • Grapefruit

  • My loofah

  • Key Lime flavored Ice cream

  • Mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
  • Moisturizing Body Lotion
  • Baklava
  • Butterflies
  • Unicorns of the Sea (aka, Benson)
  • Curling ribbon
  • ANY song by Justin Timberlake
  • The Koi Pond in the back garden

In all honesty, Diary, I could go on for hours. It seems everywhere I look all I see are...well, I think you can guess. I think this is good starting place, and between you, me, Teddy and Roxy we are sure to come up with something that will last the ages and sufficiently express my most mannish desires!

Now...since Father hasn't yet banned Cary Elwes, "Lady Jane" it shall be! Oh, I love a good period drama!

Farewell for now!


That Tricksy Siward Boy.

Dearest Diary,
S.U.t.W. Part of the reason is that sketchy scoundrel, Young Siward. Diary, he has had me so worked up in a tizzy that my goals have lost their focus! I have been so heck-bent on revenge that I forgot about wooing my sweet dulce-de-MacLeche! Diary, I have been so remiss!

That low-lying Greensville spawn has had me so set on combat that I forgot my first love: Lady MacD and bleary-eyed romantic musings about Lady MacD! Diary, I have shelved my plans until further notice. As mean spirited as that note was, the feelings that Y.S. ascribed to Lady MacD must have had some sort of basis in reality! That will be the best revenge yet, I shall make it with Lady MacD and then thank Young Siward-Gainsville for bringing us together!

yes! YES! It could work...HAHAHAHA!!!!!!

I must set about wooing her with verse! First things first though, must set about listing attributes and poetic metaphors
  • Her smile: white picket fence
  • Her lips: Fluffy pink pillows
  • Her eyes: two new pennies
  • Her hair: the finest garnet thule
  • Her...um..."lady bits:" *
  • Her scent: blueberry pamcakes with boysenberry syrup and bacon...that one might get a bit long.

Oh well, Must continue later. I MUST have some of Cook's "Scrumptious Good Times" snickerdoodles, they always taste so good after getting poeticly lost in thought. Oh, Cinnamon.



* Diary, I couldn't bring myself to come up with an artful metaphor for Lady MacD's...well, you know. Must think about it and come up with one at a later date.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Without this, a man I cannot be...

Dearest Diary,

It has come to my attention recently that it isn’t a body’s manly chest shrubbery that truly inspires the fairer sex to take notice of him, but it is actually his possessions which ignite the flame of passions within a woman.

Taking inventory of the valued possessions in my life I noticed a glaring hole and decided that it was time that hole was filled. Before I get on with the item I simply must have in order to obtain the true state of man, worthy of a beautiful counterpart to adorn my arm, I shall share with you the brief inventory of things that are dear to me but not quite enough to garner the complete attention of my desired:

  • 1.) You, Dear Diary – While you have long been my sole soul companion, your loving pages are simply not enough to get me through every long and lonely night. Unlike me, you must remain unknown to woman, else every woman in the land would know my deepest desires and insecurities and have an unabated path to my fragile psyche. Alas, my psyche is devoted to one.
  • 2.) Roxy – My wonderful chinchilla, there during good times and bad, always something soft to touch when the day has been rough. Surely my beloved will find the beauty in Roxy and my ability to take such good care of a most delicate creature will not be lost upon her.
  • 3.) 32 function Swiss Army knife – such a manly tool, able to cut through almost any substance encountered in a swift and glorious fashion. This tool also allows me to remove annoying bits of food from my gums (I maybe should offer one to Lady Lennox as a gift next Christmas) so that the smiles I cast in my love’s direction are not marred by the day’s masticating. I am also able to remove splinters from my fingers so that they remain soft and smooth, and oh so ready to touch her ample body. The list of your usefulness and appeal to a woman is endless (The Swiss are so crafty).

Alas dear diary, these possessions are simply not enough to thoroughly impress the woman of my dreams. After much thought and consideration I realized the one thing that I simply must have if I am to secure the passions of this lady; a horse of my own. How can a man be considered a man if he constantly must ask permission from his father to borrow one of his stable? He can’t, dear diary! And that is clearly why I am still unknown to woman.

I have discussed this with father and at first he was against the idea, but after several hours of non-stop begging, he finally agreed, with conditions. Damn the conditions! Rather than agreeing to buy me the young, beautiful, shiny, red coated Ferrari from the Enzo Farms, father said he’d rather I have a mature, previously ridden Mustang from Henry Ford’s Stables. Apparently father purchases all of his dull horses from the Ford Family, stating that Enzo horses are far too flashy for our tastes.

So, within the week I shall have what must be the final key to unlocking the mystery of woman, my new horse…whatever shall I name her? It matters not, what really matters is that my love will finally notice and recognize me for the man I am.

Until next time,


Sappy Fop Face

Dear Most Sacred and Delicious Diary,


In my effort to uncover more hidden truths about Young Siward, and how BEST to reveal the secret of his parentage, I have naturally been rifling through his things every time he leaves the room.

What did I find TODAY most dearest of dear diaries? Why, the diary of Young Siward of course! Rather, a book of poetry or sonnets or some thing or another he's trying to write. If you call it "writing". Let's just say it's a good thing he smells so delightful, because he's certainly not going to be wooing any buxom mistresses with this collection of slop. I shall transcribe an example here for you diary:

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;

UGH. I'm practically leaking cheese out of my EYES. It couldn't be clearer that this was written by a mere Child of Gainesville.

Also, it appears that he is writing some sort of skit or play. I mean REALLY. He could never dream of having any sort of insight into such an art form as The Theatre. I mean, people in the know understand that in order to have any sort of insight into the human condition and the structure of great theatrical work, you 1) Must NOT be a child of Johnny Gainesville (aka, you should be an ARISTOCRAT...oh Young Siward, how I long to spill the proverbial beans on this point!) 2) Must be an Oxford man 3) Must have been to Italy, which I'm sure Young Siward has NEVER seen...he's decidedly too unromantic to have ever uttered the word "ciao" and of course...well, I don't really have anything else to say on the subject except that there's is NO WAY a brute like he is could consider writing for the stage. It would be all blood and guts and people losing hands and tongues and such.


As for these sappy sonnets....I wonder who their subject could be? Some speak of a "fair youth"...

Diary! A new plan for complete vengeance is hatching! It's pecking it's little beak at the egg shell of my brain! I will discover who this "fair youth" is and in revealing his identity AND the true identity of Young Siward's Father, his shame will be complete and irreversible!

I will indulge myself in a maniacal chuckle.


Friday, September 11, 2009

Famous Person

Dear Diary,
Unexpected bliss followed me, snuck upon me, and struck with most pleasant assault last night! I was walking around the plantation looking for some adhesive to accompany my pocket full of Chinchilla fur, when father stopped my search. He told me that we had a special visitor that he would like me to meet! Diary, I had been so preoccupied with Young Siward that I was completely oblivious to the world around me. I did not ask who was visiting (for fear of appearing ignorant), but expectantly walked at father's side. We came at last to the drawing room and who was there diary? You would never guess, in a thousand plentiful guesses, what man of men was standing in the drawing room. The Paterfamilias of the South! The Progenitor of well-nigh half the county of Scotland, LA! The man himself! JONNY GAINSVILLE!

THE Jonny Gainsville, dear Diary! He had heard that our town decided to stick with the name "Scotland" instead of "Gainsville," so he came to create a few more constituants before heading off to spread more joy and paternity.

Diary, not only was meeting this epic sower of men a most unexpected delight, it opened my eyes to a new truth.

I was staring into Jonny's face wrapt with dewey eyed awe, when I noticed that he reminded me of someone. Now, I have seen my fair share of Gainsville Jr's (I mean, who hasn't? You could throw a rock in a crowded market and be guaranteed to hit one), but this was different. I noticed the semi-long flowing locks of hair, the sparkly eyes...the scent of goodness and dewy morns. It was here that my bleary eyed idol-lust turned to cold discovery. "Surely not, there is no way," I said in disbelief. I ventured too far in my curiosity when I plunged my nose into Mr. Gainsville's ample mane. Father immediately pulled me off and sent me to my room without dessert (which was a shame since we were having bundt cake), but before he did I managed to get several deep wiffs of Mr. Gainsville's scent to confirm. Diary, I believe Jonny Gainsville is Young Siward's actual father! This is most exciting news! While the son of a legend, this hardly makes Young Siward special. Outside of having a veritable army of brothers and sisters, Y.S. has no claims to royalty! He is as common as historical bushes around uncle Macbeth's mansion! This is a most blessed arrow in my quiver of revenge...now if I could just successfully get a shot off. Maybe next time. After I sneak some delicious bundt cake.

yours in exquisite pedigree,


Thursday, September 10, 2009

Plan B

Still unknown to woman, but GOOD NEWS! Father let me read his discarded portions of the paper (though he no longer lets me read the funnies, I manage to steal a few precious moments to peruse Mary Worth at every opportunity). I learned today, dear diary, that my name - Malcolm- is one of the top ten "bad boy" names. Diary, I have never considered myself a "bad-boy." I stared in shock at the paper until father corrected me for having my mouth agape.

Diary, while I do not feel "bad" perhaps I should start to look the part. In order to fool the public, I shall have to make a list of things to procure.

Malcolm's list of "Bad Boy" Items to procure.
  1. A Corn Cob Pipe: While I have promised father that I should never smoke, I may have to pretend to keep up appearences. Perhaps if I make a solution of dish soap and water, I can fool and enchant with a magical display of bubbles? Must inquire further.
  2. A Straw Boater: Nothing says rough and tumble like a straw boater, plus it becomes a handy survival aid if I am ever trapped with nothing to eat.
  3. Double Eye Patch: The only thing manlier than losing one eye in a fight is losing TWO. This may cause issues with sight, but see item four on the list for the answer to that little delimma.
  4. Cane: A man with a cane is a sure sign that he is of a sexily dubious moral nature...or possibly a veteran or cripple. I must remember to swagger when I walk.
  5. Chest Hair Wig: Diary, I don't have to tell you that the loss of Frederick was devestating, but I cannot wait until his children come of age for this to naturally occur. I must find a wig of sorts...Hmmm...Roxy's fur would be both supple, appropriately sized, and (most importantly) soft to the touch.

Ah, there is so much to do! Surely, lady McD will swoon at such a display of Devil may care style.



Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Young Siward

Dear Diary,
Young Siward's heart is filled with unwashed socks! But alas, he smells nothing like his heart! I obtained his toiletries and he owns no scented fripperies! No deodorants, no scented body-wash, no fancy cologne; he naturally smells of goodness!

Diary, this is a serious blow (a string of them seem to have popped up. Well at least Daddy is still alive and Uncle Macbeth is taking me fishing tomorrow!). Though his heart is a foul and pestilent lump of disease, he smells so fresh and so...clean? clean. That is it, he smells fresh AND clean! Diary, he is naturally scented like a dewy summer morn!

I have heard that he is quite attached to his coif. Maybe if I take the charred remains of Frederick's shears and use it as an instrument of revenge...Oooh, I tingle with what could be naughtiness. I shall lay siege to his regal crown and mangle his downy, sweet smelling locks!

Frederick shall be revenged!




I will never, ever, EVER eat JuJubes AGAIN.

I know. They were once a favorite. I used to love to put them on ice and then spit them like hard sugary pebbles at the pigeons outside the kitchen.


For just moments ago, as if this week could get ANY worse...what with the passing of dear Frederick...I was chewing on those delicious lumps of gummy goodness when I passed Young Siward in the hall. I was positively alive with excitement, for I had been rehearsing my Barb Of Epic Wit and Deviousness in front of the mirror the entire evening previous. Was I ever ready! There he was! Strutting about in his fancy pants, and fancy vest, with his fancy man-pistol. UGH. It was all I could do not to vomit all over his silly,shiny, (and cheap!) loafers. My only consolation was the fact that I was about to make him so enraged and shamed that he would likely peel off his own face rather than be recognized as Young Siward a moment longer!

As we met, I slowed my steps and turned a cunning eye to address him. But as I was trying to speak, I realized, I could not open my jaw! Those dastardly JuJubes and their unnatural penchant for hardening into fruity stones in one's mouth had practically glued my teeth together!

Oh, Diary! You cannot begin to imagine the frustration I felt. The manly levels of super testosteroniffic rage as Young Siward stood over me and watched me struggle! At first he looked quizzical, but then he just kicked me in the knee caps and laughed like the brutish English dog he is. To simply stand there and watch as a young, handsome, soft-skinned prince struggles to speak and do nothing? Truly he is a disgrace to the name Siward. As if they needed any help disgracing themselves.

I will say that with my mouth held shut by JuJuGlue, my sense of smell was heightened and Young Siward gave off a delightfully mannish scent that I'm sure must be how he woos the ladies.

Note to self: Raid Young Siward's toiletry bag to discover it's origins!

Yours ever,



Oh Diary!
Will the tragic hand of fate never cease to fall upon me! Horror of horrors, Diary...I have lost Frederick. Alas, My copious tears of sorrow have rendered a portion of your page unusable! Is my life forever doomed to misfortune on an epic scale!? I must continue and write around the manifest puddle of sadness.

Diary, I decided to bathe and washed Frederick with the greatest care and
concern. He was so young and innocent, yet bold and warrior-like not
unlike myself. I used my special blueberry
scented shampoo (as I have a belief that
blueberry is the berry of love) to tenderly
wash Frederick of the days' taint. I brushed him
ever so gently, and dried him with a tissue. ALAS!
Diary, I have an unfortunate Pavlovian reaction to tissues!
I sneezed on impulse...and...and...Diary, Frederick was from my chest...
Untimely ripp'd!

Oh, Frederick! I had pulled him out by the very root!
All my manly hair in one fell swoop!
I shrieked in terror, but father had no sympathy for my
great distress. He covered his face and cried, which at first I thought
was on my behalf, but he began to weep for sending DonalBORING away. I suspect it was because the loss of my dear Frederick reminded him of his long-departed son. I was to receive no consolation from father, so I decided that Frederick must have a proper burial.

Frederick died a Christian under the law, but was a creature of warfare, not of peace; a manly creature. I thought it fitting to send him off in the way befitting his noble nature. I constructed a pyre of twigs and leaves. Cook let me have some wood chips along with a snickerdoodle, the consummation of which did little to lift my spirits. I dressed Frederick in the finest cloth and placed him on the pyre with all his worldly possessions (a dollop of Dapper Dan pomade, a pair of grooming shears, and his pajamas I had fashioned from an old sock.) I laid him on the pyre and lit the match, sending him off to whatever future awaited such a worthy creature.

I went inside and devoured snickerdoodles until my tummy ached from their delicious, cinnamony goodness.

Diary, I must repose before I can give any more thoughts to my revenge.



Tuesday, September 8, 2009


Dear Malcolm's Diary,

Still unknown to woman - or razor for that matter, but I do believe Frederick is a sign that after twenty-five years of boyish softness, I shall soon become a man!

Onwards! Diary, with my newly fertile follicle (and the hope of a quickly-sprouting mane of manly chest hair) I have begun to plot my revenge in a manly fashion. You might have noticed that your serene, powder-blue exterior has now become enwrapped in a firm layer of camoflauged fabric with gold fillagree on the outside binding. Thomas the Tank Engine, who once occupied your front cover - and my heart, has now been replaced by a gun wielding Benson- his magical narwhal horn newly glistening with the gore of his enemies, astride his unicorn death-steed! Oh, Diary, such schemes we shall hatch together!

My plan is as follows (note to self, must be careful not to leave you around dear diary should my little plot be unrightously purloined by that carpy English brigand) : Young Siward, being a good English boy, is quite taken with his wit. Oh, how he goes on and on diary! I have been the proverbial butt of many of his witticisms, but no longer! I have devised a retort of such cunning and guile (no small feat considering both are foreign to my nature) that upon its utterance, Young Siward will wet himself with shame, the men will hold their manhoods cheap, and all the ladies' corsets will rupture as their desire for me outgrows their own physical bodies!

The key for this successful endeavor is to engage Young Siward in a conversation about laundry. As Young Siward cannot help but seize every opportunity for a naughty comment, I have the advantage.

For fear I may be discovered, I shan't record the barb (but rest assured...it is sharp). Wish me luck Diary, I am off to practice in the mirror! And possibly give Frederick a bath.

With much love,

Wonderous Discovery!

Oh Diary, I am glad that I am alone with you at this moment, for the sheer glee in my heart cannot be contained and would be enough to knock any mortal to his or her knees if they were in my presence now (maybe this would be a useful feeling to harness for future use?).

Today I have made a wondrous discovery! It started as one of those mornings where I could not shake the downy sleep from my princely eyes but finally managed to drag myself out of my bed and to my washing chamber. I probably would have been able to sleep another 4 to 6 hours but the agonizing pressure on my bladder prohibited this. I must limit myself to one glass of Kool-Aid before bed in the future, else I be damned to a mere 11 hours of sleep each night.

Once I had finished my morning cleansing I set out upon the time intensive daily task of checking myself for ticks and other fine parasites. My saintly mother instilled upon me the importance of such a task. She once said that a person in my position will eventually find himself surrounded by thirsty bloodsucking things such as these and I must do everything in my power to keep them at bay.

Just a few minutes into my search, after my soft hands had maneuvered their way through my silky locks atop my boyishly small pate, down my neck and around my shoulders, they made their way to my chest where something felt out of the ordinary. It was a small thing, and at first I thought I had found the tail end of some dastardly nematode, but as my fingers probed it I realized it was slightly more stiff than any roundworm should be. Normally, I would just look down to see what sort of foul best was intruding upon my heavenly body, but this particular monster had burrowed itself just out of sight, in that blind-spot created by my chiseled chin.

Quickly, I rushed to my mirror (I love how my delicate feet nestle comfortably into those two foot shaped worn spots in the floor right in front of it) and leaned in close to get a good look at this freeloading forager. At first I didn't believe my eyes, surely this was another dream and that talking Narwahl would burst forth from the closet singing some wonderful show tune, but after a horrific pinch to my arm, the pain confirmed I was indeed awake and this was real.

Oh diary, I know you are just mad to learn what it is that is proudly protruding from my prolific pectoral. Let me tell you dear one, it is my first chest hair!!! Yes, can you believe it? With this discovery I am surely on my way to becoming the dignified man that you and I both know I am destined to be. But what is more important, is that I know soon Lady McD will realize my manly state and come calling for me.

I know that now I only have one manly follicle (whom I've decided to name Frederick), but soon his brethren will join him in great numbers and their ranks will fill in my chest and flourish in a hairy undergrowth to rival the dense coverage of Burnham Wood. As my manly bush begins to grow and protrude loudly from my tunic, every woman within 100 kilometers should find herself pining for me, but mine and Frederick's hearts are true and belong to only one. She shall finally be ours and we shall no longer be unknown to woman.

Fear not yet diary, for my newly beloved Frederick is not a coarse rough thing as you might expect. While he is strong and does easily issue a proclamation of my manliness, he is quite soft to the touch, softer than the smooth fur of my beloved chinchilla, Roxy. So I shall be able to maintain my angelic presence even with the introduction of this testosterone proclaiming discovery.

Well my dearest and sweetest friend, all of the excitement this morning, paired with my less than ideal amount of sleep last night has tired me beyond belief. I believe I shall go and rest my gentle head for a time before lunch. Frederick and I shall curl up together, sleep, and then dream and sing beautiful songs with that handsome Narwhal. At least until our grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches are done (oh, I must remember to request that chef prepare an extra sandwich for Frederick).

Lovingly yours forever,

Friday, September 4, 2009

English Trickery!

Oh Diary.

I have not the words to express my rage and simultaneous despair.

Actually, I have PLENTY of words!



My soul feels slightly lifted.

Well, Diary, I'm sure you recall how I nearly exploded with exultation all over my last entry regarding the love note from "Lady McD." Now? The only thing which bursts forth from me is a shower of tears.

You see, as I was skipping toward dinner, my scandalously delicious note in hand, I came along none other than Young Siward.

(Excuse me while I gag myself!)

You see Diary, Young Siward and his dreadful father are visiting this month. Apparently, Young Siward is a gifted swordsmen...if you catch my drift my dear Diary. He never loses an opportunity to mock my...well...shortcomings. And since DonalBORING hasn't yet returned from what father is calling his "vacation of a permanent variety", Young Siward has been staying in my quarters with me. I am sure now that he has violated you my sweet, indulgent, non-judgement book of thoughts. For it was he who composed the letter. When we met in the hall, he immediately asked what bit of paper I was clutching to my breast. My reply? "None of your beeswax swarthy Englishman!"

It was then that he backhanded me.

And Diary? He was laughing with such maniacal glee I feared he might bring me up off the floor by my underoos...again. But rather he, began reciting the note! MY NOTE!

As he concluded, continuing to cackle madly, I realized the horrible truth before he even spoke it.

No! No, alas, the note was not written in the hand of my ripe peach, my dulcet darling, my Venus!

But Diary? Despite this setback, my resolution is as firm and hard as ever. I shall have that kiss from LadyMcD whether it was she who promised it or no!

Oh Rapturous Day! (or ten internets for guessing the comic-book allusion of awesome)

Oh Dearest Diary,
I must dispense with pleasantries and jump right into the fray - as it were. I have in my possession a note of such impassioned excess, that I am nearly bursting at the proverbial seams.

"To the Dear Boy, Prince Malcolm" is printed in exquisitely feminine print. The ink boldly seeps through the pages as the author's passion for me undoubtedly does. I carefully unfold the paper's ragged edges (the letter was written in haste, perhaps an illicit romantic attraction!? Oh, how delightfully novel!) and unfold the sweet tenders lying within.

"To the Scrumptious, Young Prince Malcolm." Diary, could it be? Could I have enticed such passionate feeling from another that they are willing, nay-desirous, to abandon all customary societal and moral law and devour me as I devoured Cook' s pamcakes yesterday morn!? Mustn't conjecture, perhaps in the courtship process one must express a desire to feast upon the flesh of their beloved. yes of course, that MUST be it! A healthy appetite confirms ones healthy genetic material. Silly young prince Malcolm, you are so un-knowledgeable in the ways of love. I must read on.

"While I understand how ill-advised writing this letter may be, I cannot stand to remain silent a moment longer: I burn with desire for your youthful and innocent touch." OOOOH! Diary, there are no diphthongs nor pure vowel sounds known to man that could convey my elation! It assuredly was written by a woman given to another man...could it be!? Have all my musings and their manifest stickies come to fruition!? Well, regardless, I may not have to wait until this years cotillion before I receive my first kiss! I wonder what it will be like. Will she smell of flowers or freshly baked goods! Will she taste like freshly baked goods? I hope she tastes like boysenberry: the most exotic of the berries. Mmmmm..Must continue, must not get lost...in...thoughts.

"I have heard you are yet unknown to woman. How I long to be your alluringly older, more experienced, yet gentle guide to the art and act of love." How does she know! She must be someone close by... I had no idea love could manifest itself both as an act (kissing in various degrees) and art (etchings and the like). I must not let Lady MacD...I mean "the mysterious stranger" know I did not know of these rituals. She knows I am inexperienced, but I may surprise her with my love making abilities; I am unrivaled in my etching ability and I can put away pamcakes like "a champ"- father says.

"Though it may never come to pass, know that your tender kiss is always in my thoughts." No! No! Diary, say it isn't so! It must happen! It must!

"Your loving friend,
Lady Macduff (stricken through)

I mean,
your secret admirer "

Diary, I am not fooled by such a simple trick! It IS Lady McD! Oh, how I have long awaited this day. I knew my dream with Benson was prophetic! I must make this happen. I shall see her again before too long and I must let her know that I desire her kisses above all else. I shall greet her with an etching of her lovely face surrounded by many hearts, a basket of baked goods, a customary nibble on her fair flesh, and possibly (if my courage doesn't fail) steal a kiss! Oh, Diary, I have lots of work to do!

Indubitably yours,
Young Prince Malcolm

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Must Conserve Pages

Dear Malcolm's Diary,

I have laid such a siege to your virgin pages today! And how! My pen has ravished your pure, pristene silence into most clamorous voice again and again and again! On a related note...still unknown to woman.

the combined excitement of my particularly decadent breakfast with Lady Lennox's entrancing pen left me quite tuckered; I took a well-deserved nap. What dreams, dear Diary! I was trouncing through a darkened wood terribly lost and frightened, when I happened upon such a site! A talking Narwhal! The Narwhal was astride that most splendid of magical beasts! That paragon of cryptozoological apparitions! Dear Diary, it was the manly unicorn! I attempted my approach so as not to scare off the creatures when I stepped in a pile of the unicorn's "gleaming leavings." Unable to contain my glee, my cries of joy alerted the pair to my presence. The Narwhal (I believe his name was Benson) bugled with his magical horn (I didn't know they could do that!) and told me, "Young Prince Malcolm, thou hast been granted favor with us. I shall grant you what your heart most desires..." In my excitement, I woke myself - heart all a-flutter! Could he mean a kiss from Lady McD?! I do not know. I must practice, as my time may come soon. Well, diary, I must conclude. My teddy and I have much work ahead of us. Perhaps after practice a manly stroll is in order? Followed by more of Cook's pancakes. Yes.

Fare thee well!


My Perturbatory Secret

As yet unknown to woman. Still.

Diary, I am perturbed, a sensation as foreign to my tender emotions as avarice, envy or possibly even sloth.

Why entertain I such a distracting tizzy?

Well, Diary, I shall tell you and you alone. And I will do it with my secret purple writing pen -- a treasured gift given by the Lady Lennox on the occasion of my 16th birthday.

It is so much fun, this pen. You see, when you hold it one way, a wayward young lady is portrayed in a cartoon-like state of shameful undress. But when one holds it as to write, garments descend upon her, therefore restoring her dignity. The Lady Lennox said she purchased it for me in a market whilst doing missionary work in Tijuana.

As this pen contains ink, this ink will be my voice, albeit in a darker-purpler hue. (Can a voice have a hue? Will have to drop a stickie in my Musings Box for later.) It's nib shall be as t'were my lips against your ever-accepting page, dear Diary ... which I suppose would be like the mirror upon which I practice that blessed first kiss at next year's Cotillion.

Or perhaps the year following. No rush, really.

My apologies, dearest Diary. I fear that I am a-rambling, and so I will come right and straight to the point.

If my father is King (and he is) and my dear departed mother was a Queen (and she was, as well as an unmitigated Saint), then ...

Why, oh, why does nobody call me Young Prince Malcolm?!

There. Now I feel better. I just had to ask someone, even if it was only you, dear Diary.

Sweet, understanding, two-dimensional you.

Thoughts on Tartness

Dear Malcolm's Diary,

Oh RAPTURE! Diary I could hardly wait to wake up this morning and put pen to paper. As it was, I could barely shut my eyes last night because I was all a tingle...for a variety of reasons. BUT! Mostly because I was filled with excitement at the thought of facing the morning.

Do you know what today is Diary?

It's Blueberry Pancake Day! Every 17th Wednesday, Cook makes me my most favorite of all breakfasts...Blueberry Pancakes. And? She even makes a smiley face out of whipped cream on the topmost one.

The thought of sinking my fork into their fluffy, delicious, syrupy goodness combined with the just the right amount of blueberry tartness just makes me...well, truly it makes me think of Lady McD.

That's an odd development.

Self? You just keep unfolding like a flower!

I still haven't come to any final decisions about my title. However, if there was a way to include something about pancakes and/or blueberries, I should be very much satisfied.

Well, Diary, I'm fit to burst with desire for those moist, warm pancakes...so farewell for now!

Yours ever,


Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Brief thoughts on the choosing of my title.

Dear Malcolm's Diary,

Still unknown to woman. Father continues to drop hints about my future kingship. I can't help but get all tickled pink when he mentions it. Father gets angry every time I do. He says kings do not get tickled (nor wear pink for that matter) and tells me to not do the "pee-pee dance" everytime he mentions it. It's not my fault, Diary! How often does one become king? Well, when I am king I can get just as tickled as I like.

If I am to be king, I must have a title. All good kings have one. There is a lot riding on this, Diary. I must choose the one that best describes me. Hmmm..."King Malcolm the Kindly? King Malcolm the Boyishly Handsome?The Pure in the Naughty Bits? The Known for His Ability to Remain Pure and Untainted in His Nature While Simultaneously Egging Others On to Believe He Is a Lusty Despot On The Make, Thereby Proving Their Moral Fibre to Him Whilst Falsely Destroying The Small Thread of Hope They Still Cling to - Only to Turn Around and Say the Iambic Equivalent of "Just Kidding?"" Maybe. A bit long of tooth, but it shows promise. Well, until tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...


"King Malcolm the "