George Fossington-Jowel Thanks Party Host
George Fossington-Jowel, aged 22 – heir to the fortune of his eccentric mother, Baroness Marjorie Fossington-Jowel of Gizzardton, UK – has carefully crafted a letter to Ronnie Reckless, the host of a party he attended last Saturday in Edmonton.
Dear Mr. Reckless:
Please accept my sincerest gratitude for your hospitality at my first ever North American party. I had a truly delightful time and do hope that my attendance was welcome enough that I might anticipate invitations to other festive occasions in the future! How I dearly hope so!
Please also pass on my thanks to Ms. Charmaine Klosko for being such a witty and intelligent interlocutor for such a long duration of the evening. I truly enjoyed meeting such a quintessential north Albertan! Were you aware that Ms. Klosko’s great-grandmother was from the Samson Cree tribe of the Hobbema area? Imagine my delight upon discovering that I was talking to a living and breathing descendant of Indians! I had detected from the evening’s outset a certain wild glint to Ms. Klosko’s dark-hued eyes and I must say that it makes her quite beautiful in a very naturalistic sort of way. I am very grateful to her for letting me take a little nibble in her musky nether regions during an extended private session in your well-appointed bathroom. I will not soon forget Ms. Klosko, as indeed, I hope, she will not soon forget me!
Some of your other guests were also delightful company. I marvelled in particular at the antics of Kevin Keghead, who managed to inhale from his cigarette, then consume an entire pint of Molson Special Dry, and exhale afterwards a fine plume of silvery nicotine smoke, all whilst humming the theme song of The Great Escape! I laughed so much I nearly besmirched my trousers when he proceeded to stand on his head in the bathtub and drink directly from the barrel of beer that you had so generously provided. Mr. Keghead is a man of considerable talent. I am sure that he would have been welcomed fondly among my own circle of friends, especially on our Rummy nights of the olden days, when we would gather in the dining hall at Mandrake Manor, play cards and sneak sips of rum (hence the double-entendre of “Rummy”!) and exchange amusing tales about deflowering the local peasantry! How fondly I remember our schoolboy days at Eton, when we used to have terribly exciting towel fights in the showers, and on special occasions, re-enact the Spartan soldiers’ initiation rituals of young novices! How much I pine for the company of those splendid old buggers! Now, sadly, they have all moved on to brokerage companies, or retired to their country estates or various rehabilitation facilities. How I miss them! And how I miss in particular the soft hands of Billy Giggles!
Sorry about that. I am going on what you would call a tangent, my dear Mr. Reckless!
In any case, as you can tell, a party like last Saturday’s is just the sort of thing for a boisterous blue-blood like me!
I am sorry about the tussle with Freddy Federowicz. I do hope I’ve spelt his name correctly. I did a spot of genealogical research and apparently, as he is Polish, this spelling prevails over the Russian variant, Federovic. When I first encountered this rather forthright fellow, I was quite inebriated, as I am sure you will recall. When he suggested that my exposed testicles were smaller than those of his little cousin (who apparently is a mere nineteen months of age!) I was gripped by a rare fury. I hope he is not still smarting from when I stuck my index finger in his left eye. That was an accident. I was trying to deliver a roundhouse punch, but sadly, those have never been my forte. We Fossington-Jowels have awfully long and dangly fingers – check the memoirs of Sir Theodore Fossington-Jowel (published 1892, Bodley Head, London, UK) if you doubt the long tradition of our dangly digits. They hinder our abilities to excel at certain activities – but greatly enhance our ability to excel at others (see Ms. Klosko!!!)
Anyway, in my circle of friends, after temporary bouts of booze-induced boisterousness like that, we generally sleep it all off, and after a hearty breakfast brought to us by the butler, we phone each other and act as if nothing serious has happened, and then we go fox-hunting. So please provide the phone number of Mr. Federowicz, if you please. If I can’t make amends by taking him fox hunting, at the very least, we could go scouting for beavers! (Double-entendre intended. Chortle!)
In conclusion, you are a bloody good egg, Mr. Reckless, and I don’t regret my three-day hangover in the slightest. Aside from a bit of listlessness from the old trouser snake, it wasn’t anything I can’t handle! (I do believe I’m setting a record for double-entendres in one letter!)
My most effusive regards, old boy,
George “Georgie-Boy” Fossington-Jowel
Dear Mr. Reckless:
Please accept my sincerest gratitude for your hospitality at my first ever North American party. I had a truly delightful time and do hope that my attendance was welcome enough that I might anticipate invitations to other festive occasions in the future! How I dearly hope so!
Please also pass on my thanks to Ms. Charmaine Klosko for being such a witty and intelligent interlocutor for such a long duration of the evening. I truly enjoyed meeting such a quintessential north Albertan! Were you aware that Ms. Klosko’s great-grandmother was from the Samson Cree tribe of the Hobbema area? Imagine my delight upon discovering that I was talking to a living and breathing descendant of Indians! I had detected from the evening’s outset a certain wild glint to Ms. Klosko’s dark-hued eyes and I must say that it makes her quite beautiful in a very naturalistic sort of way. I am very grateful to her for letting me take a little nibble in her musky nether regions during an extended private session in your well-appointed bathroom. I will not soon forget Ms. Klosko, as indeed, I hope, she will not soon forget me!
Some of your other guests were also delightful company. I marvelled in particular at the antics of Kevin Keghead, who managed to inhale from his cigarette, then consume an entire pint of Molson Special Dry, and exhale afterwards a fine plume of silvery nicotine smoke, all whilst humming the theme song of The Great Escape! I laughed so much I nearly besmirched my trousers when he proceeded to stand on his head in the bathtub and drink directly from the barrel of beer that you had so generously provided. Mr. Keghead is a man of considerable talent. I am sure that he would have been welcomed fondly among my own circle of friends, especially on our Rummy nights of the olden days, when we would gather in the dining hall at Mandrake Manor, play cards and sneak sips of rum (hence the double-entendre of “Rummy”!) and exchange amusing tales about deflowering the local peasantry! How fondly I remember our schoolboy days at Eton, when we used to have terribly exciting towel fights in the showers, and on special occasions, re-enact the Spartan soldiers’ initiation rituals of young novices! How much I pine for the company of those splendid old buggers! Now, sadly, they have all moved on to brokerage companies, or retired to their country estates or various rehabilitation facilities. How I miss them! And how I miss in particular the soft hands of Billy Giggles!
Sorry about that. I am going on what you would call a tangent, my dear Mr. Reckless!
In any case, as you can tell, a party like last Saturday’s is just the sort of thing for a boisterous blue-blood like me!
I am sorry about the tussle with Freddy Federowicz. I do hope I’ve spelt his name correctly. I did a spot of genealogical research and apparently, as he is Polish, this spelling prevails over the Russian variant, Federovic. When I first encountered this rather forthright fellow, I was quite inebriated, as I am sure you will recall. When he suggested that my exposed testicles were smaller than those of his little cousin (who apparently is a mere nineteen months of age!) I was gripped by a rare fury. I hope he is not still smarting from when I stuck my index finger in his left eye. That was an accident. I was trying to deliver a roundhouse punch, but sadly, those have never been my forte. We Fossington-Jowels have awfully long and dangly fingers – check the memoirs of Sir Theodore Fossington-Jowel (published 1892, Bodley Head, London, UK) if you doubt the long tradition of our dangly digits. They hinder our abilities to excel at certain activities – but greatly enhance our ability to excel at others (see Ms. Klosko!!!)
Anyway, in my circle of friends, after temporary bouts of booze-induced boisterousness like that, we generally sleep it all off, and after a hearty breakfast brought to us by the butler, we phone each other and act as if nothing serious has happened, and then we go fox-hunting. So please provide the phone number of Mr. Federowicz, if you please. If I can’t make amends by taking him fox hunting, at the very least, we could go scouting for beavers! (Double-entendre intended. Chortle!)
In conclusion, you are a bloody good egg, Mr. Reckless, and I don’t regret my three-day hangover in the slightest. Aside from a bit of listlessness from the old trouser snake, it wasn’t anything I can’t handle! (I do believe I’m setting a record for double-entendres in one letter!)
My most effusive regards, old boy,
George “Georgie-Boy” Fossington-Jowel
posted by Laurence Miall at 5:02 PM
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