“I say, Krugman, do you know the Bishop of Norwich? I take it by your open-mouthed silence that you do not. Well, he is a splendid chap, but he always forgets to pass the port. The port.” [In a low voice: “Gad, man, must you always play the bumpkin? I have just provided you with the polite formulation used to remind one to pass the port ‘round. No, no, not that way!”]
The company, shocked to the core by the sight of Krugman actually handing the decanter of port directly across the table, gasps in unison and writhes in revulsion, a veritable Laocoön Group of outraged propriety. Chauncey-Teetham rises suddenly from his chair, his hand upon the hilt of his sword. Smythe-Pooter retrieves his monocle from a dish of Spotted Dick, whither it has flown as the result of a spasm of the eye brought on by the observation of the horrific bloomer. Pendragon withdraws a white glove from his breast pocket, on the verge of offering a challenge to this ghastly outsider.
“No, gentlemen, stay! Chauncey, no martial airs out of season, if you please; and Pendragon, kindly return your gauntlet to the company of its fellow. Friends, I crave your pardon on Mr. Krugman’s behalf, but I should have informed you earlier that he is the victim of an Ivy League education, and so can know nothing of the social graces, let alone of the moral and philosophical underpinnings of Western civilization.”
The hostile murmurs immediately subside into a concerto of sympathetic tongue-clicking and embarrassed apologies, the general aspect being one of “there, but for the grace of God, go I.”
“You are to view Mr. Krugman in the light of an inhabitant of the same phylum as the Kombai tribesmen or Picts, a bone through the nose or blue tattoos - based on your respective preferences - to be taken as implied. A savage, to be sure, but perhaps one from whom we may tease some evidence of nobility, if we approach him with gentleness and understanding. Now, Mr. Krugman, if you will be so good as to desist from extracting any more lice from your beard and crushing them under your salad fork, I would like to probe some of those remarkable runes or hieroglyphics which you carved yesterday beneath the banner of the New York Times on that news organization’s web site. Do you know of what I speak?”
“Krug know.”
“Excellent, excellent. Now, your…your thoughts, for want of a better word, suggest a certain hostility toward our leaders at the time of the dastardly attack against innocent civilians on American soil.”
“Bah! Great White Father Bush and Little White Cousin Giuliani come, by an’ by, make palaver, fight innocent Musulmans. Everybody know man-eating Zion tribe pull strings.”
“You’ll pardon me, I’m sure, but it strikes me that you’re talking through your parrot-feathered headdress. This was an act of war by bloodthirsty fanatics against people who had done them no harm.”
“So? Look at sunny side. Big sky-birds demolish dwellings, make ‘em new jobs for peoples not working.”
“That is a sentiment as idiotic as it is vile.”
“Humph! You got ‘em Nobel Prize in Economics?”
“It is an honor I would gladly forego in view of the intellectual and moral caliber of some of its recipients.”
“You no savvy good thing when see ‘em. Much wampum. Big hut. Plenty peoples think Krug smart fella. Krug’s canoe make big splash. All donkey tribe like ‘em. Krug do whatever need to feather nest. Say much words, make ‘em anger-talk, keep donkey warriors stirred up, receive thanks from Great Black Father.” Krugman pauses to take a drink directly from the silver creamer. “Mmmm. Not bad. Not as good as purple firewater, though. B-u-u-r-r-r-p-p!”
“Well, now. I had vowed to hear you out, Krugman, and to refrain from intruding upon your ravings with harsh criticism; however, I find that I can now barely restrain myself from intruding upon your withers with a horsewhip, so I shall bid you good-night. Gentlemen, I suggest that we reconvene tomorrow and commence deliberations on what I perceive to be an urgent need for further investigation into the nature of this ‘Ivy League’. Judging by the specimen before us, it would appear to be a creeping vegetation of the most poisonous variety that thrives upon a soil rich in ignorance and complacency.”
9 comments:
I love visits with J. Packington's set. And I wish somebody would intrude upon Krugman's withers with a horsewhip. In public, preferably in Times Square. And on camera, so we can all laugh and point.
Horsewhip? I'd rather use a cat o' nine tails on the smarmy bastard.
Paco,
Where do you come up with this stuff. Absolutely brilliant!
After Krugman savagely wolfs down the delicately prepared pheasant, he interrupts the peaceful meal by loudly snapping the thigh bone and lustily slurping the marrow.
"What are you doing, Mr. Krugman?"
Krugman looks up with a sea of bodily fluids dripping down his beard.
"Krug good cocksucker."
Just at that moment Barney Frank enters the room with what appears to be a banana in his pocket.
Krug deservedly skewered Man.
Good serve, Paco.
You write better toff dialogue than the current crop of British scriptwriters.
great stuff! perfect with morning tea.
but just one thing, sir. why must you malign the picts? they were a noble tribe that even rome feared!
Steve: Haw!
Bruce: Thankee. Probably comes from all those years of soaking up Smollett, Johnson, Wodehouse and P. O'Brian.
Miss Red: Laughing with, not at the Picts!
In related beverage etiquette, never roll up your sleeves as you approach the punch bowl. No reason.
"Chauncey-Teetham rises suddenly from his chair, his hand upon the hilt of his sword"
This concerned me slightly Paco as of course no weapons are allowed in the mess - surely Paco could not be guilty of an inaccuracy? But then I remembered that regimental tradition is that officers of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders can be armed (goes back to the Indian Mutiny apparently when they were suprised at breakfasts) and of course realised that Chauncey-Teetham must be a member of that now sadly vanished regiment.
cac: Could have been a meeting of the Knights of Columbus, ya know...
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