Lately, I have been prepare my personal papers and effects so that I might begin the arduous process of crafting my memoirs. Yes, my memoirs. Surely this task shall be as exhilarating as it is ponderous, for I have led a storied and celebrated life – one which has yet to see the twilight of my days!

I was delighted to uncover two faded photographs of my most cherished mother and father. The two could not have been more different, and yet they produced a spry gentlefellow such as myself. Consider father:

My Father: Henry P. Wigglesworth III

Born in 1875, my father was the seventh of 24 children – all of whom were rapscallions of the HIGHEST order. At the tender and confusing age of nineteen, he was convicted of rabble-rousing and grandstanding and sentenced to fight to the DEATH with a stallion  by the name of Gruffin Peabody. A brute, a most horrible brute! But fate spared my gentle da’… or rather ten of his brothers did! After being rescued by those ten ruffians from the gladiator’s jail in Upsworthington, my father bandied about in various ill-mannered professions. He became a Worst Boy (which, incidentally is far better paid than the Hollywood profession of “Best Boy”), Stable Licker, Hay Dandy, until finally settling on the profession he had at the time of my birth: Professional Fighting Poser for Pictures. Quite.

Tragically, he was killed by a rogue flashpop after this picture was taken, and only mere months after I burst upon this world. Pity, pity!

I know little of how he and my sainted mother, Senorita Elizabeth

Franksmarks, came to court and marry, but there does seem to be a surviving record of my conception that shows they loved each other in the style of the ancients: Most Profoundly, and with GREAT Esteem!

‘Ahem’ As I was recalling…

The visage of an angel.

My MUCH sainted mother was of a different strata ENTIRELY! You see, she was the pearl of her family – a stunning jewel of refinement and beauty. Blessed with a lovely singing voice, my mother performed with the Metropolitain Royal Opera Touring Troupe, entertaining kings and Lamas alike! She taught me the finer things of being a gentlefellow, such as how to debeard a glistening oyster for a lady, or else how to curtsy Just So for a passing dandy. What upbringing! What grace!

Tragically, she was overcome by the Grips before I was into long pants. Terrible disease, Grips! It practically CONSUMES the pour soul, while encumbering the body with the most foul odors. She could not even enjoy consuming her own faeces towards the end. Tragedy! WOE!

I still have the many jewels and tiaras she left me as part of her family’s VAST estate. Her death set me on the path of discovery, voyage, and intrigue. Accompanied by her faithful manservant, Pierre, I carried forth the best traits of my beloved mother and storied father… but that is a tale for another time!

Until then, fair friends, adieu Adieu!

Oh dear, oh DEAR! I have had just the most perplexing series of encounters with my new neighbor. You see, sirs and ladyfolk, I have been quite happy alone on my three-acre plot of land for the past several decades.

Yes, I’ve even managed to construct quite the cottage of the loveliest English oak, and planted the most delicious array of cabbages and root veg to indulge my culinary bent. But something has occurred that has sent me into a right proper TIZZY! What happened, you ask? Who could have made such an incursion on my lovely little manor that I felt compelled to take to the lightbox to send out such a missive?

Witness, my new neighbor: James P. Snufrump.

Then witness, it you will, what havok this garishly made-up gentleman NAY ponce, has wrought at my lovely little manner!

1. He loudly moved 12 of his obese relatives in late one evening whilst I was enjoying a scone. The sound of their hawking and squawking caused me to leap from my chair, leaving the scone to sit a trifle too long in the tea saucer. It was QUITE ruined.
2. My lovely pond and stream have been TOTALLY robbed of the many delightful little fishes that had leapt and frolicked in the waves just a mere month ago. Tragedy! Terrible tidings! Woe!
3. Mr. Snufrump prefers the vocal stylings of one Mr. Boz Scaggs to the exclusion of all the masters. What, pray-tell, could be the purpose of blasting “Jojo” at top levels at all hours of the day and night. I can barely hear myself chew once he and his rabble start in with the sing-alongs!

I am simply BESIDE myself and at my WITS END about how to deal with this loutish brute and his squabbling relatives! Whatever is a poor fellow of fine upbringing and tasteful manners to do?

Maybe a call to Gorden Ramsey is in order?

The following is both TRUE and terrible.

There once was a Scotsman named Sean C
Who came to my house to eat FLAN, see?
Six servings he ate
Including the plate
Then he ate my canary named Chauncy.

And he was never invited over again.

Rest in PEACE, old chum.