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.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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.
http://picturesforsadchildren.com/index.php?comicID=150
http://picturesforsadchildren.com/index.php?comicID=150
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.
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
Diary!
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?"
Yours,
Y.P.M.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif
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?"
Yours,
Y.P.M.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Motani_burek_1.gif
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
SnuggleFish!
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.
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!
Y.P.M.
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
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.
Yours,
Y.P.M.
* 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,
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,
Y.P.M.
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