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!

Most HONORABLE Mayor Thrumblood,

I am writing as a GREATLY concerned citizen of our fair Villetown. One might say there could be no GREATER concerned body than I!

Lately, many a foul event has plagued our sleepy little hamlet: accursed Puffinry, upsetting run-ins with the YOUTH of neighboring Buffton, and now the savage killing of the young member of the Pidgewidge clan.

What plans have you and the council set forth to rectify these many signs that our little oasis in the modern world is being dragged down to the depths of probable ghetto? What assurances can you give me, landowner and upstanding citizen (who has voted for you in 46 of the past 47  electoral events*) that anything will be done to restore safety?

Pip & Tut to YOU, Sir!

Gatsby

* Gatsby was ill during election 47 with a most severe flair-up of THE GOUT, and therefore was unable to make it to the polling place.