Friends, friends! The trip to the MOON has been quite ruined! What devious beast could have sabotaged my lovely little space rocket? How ever did peanut butter wind up smooshed into the controls of my lunar orbiter? You have only but one guess to know who the foul creature is that perpetrated this heinous act of terrorism on your dear friend Gatsby:

James P. Snufrump.

That’s right! Last night, I was out tinkering with my lovely little rocket (the HT PorridgeQueen), when what should I hear but the utter ruckus that SOME consider music at the Snufrump manor. That’s right, it was the “musical” stylings of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Cats, my friends, is not quality musical scoring. It is barely passable catterwauling!

I climbed down from atop my little rocket, and went over to ask that blasted puffin to PLEASE TURN DOWN HIS NOISE, but I discovered no one at home! On return to my little rocket, I noticed the most strong odor of peanut butter the second I entered the hatch, and was AGHAST to find little puffiny footprints all about the living quarters, etched in digusting peanut butter.

RIP - HT PorridgeQueen

The controls were quite ruined, and Snufrump’s filthy little wingprints were all about the destroyed landing buttons. I marched outside and found – you guessed it – that filthy puffin drinking from a cask of gutterwine and guffawing to himself.

“Why DID you do that, sir?” I inquired.

“Whatever do you mean, GB? I was just passing by and saw this contraption on your lawn and simply HAD to take a peek!”

“You FILTHY creature, do you have ANY idea what you have done?” But of course, he did not. Because he is a simple bloody creature who was too busy poking his beak where it did not belong.

How ever will I tell Hibiscus of this latest woe? I fear she may not accept another promise of the MOON voyage, and I shall never fulfill that which has been a life-long dream…

WOE!

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?