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!

To: Gatsby

Sender’s Whereabouts: Closer than you think…

Missster Gatsby,

We hear you have rekindled waylaid plans to picnic on the moon. Let us assure you that any such plans are FOOLISH and FOOLHARDY. Esssspecially if they include advice or help from THERAMUNGO.

You haven’t heard from THERAMUNGO recently, have you?

WE THOUGHT NOT.

Watch your step, kind sir. Watch your sssstep.

Signed,

“Finch”

Dear Friends: Have you ever had a dream?

No, no, not a night-time dream of fancy or glee. A fond wish to see something or somewhere unusual and fantastical? Well, I have! And that place is the MOON. When I was just a lad of 8 or 9, my dear old mummy took me to see a simply marvelous picture called Le voyage dans la lune* at the local theatre. My words, did I EVER enjoy that picture! My favorite portion, you see was that of the MOON. Ever since seeing that stirring film, it has been a life-long desire to picnic with a good friend upon the surface of that pocky surface, even… dare I say?… nibble on it’s crusty/cheesy surface.

I would spend hours as a lad gazing up at the MOON, sometimes wasting many hours which SHOULD have been devoted to studying Latin drawing her rounded edges on my slate. Quite the red knuckles and bottoms had I after the nuns caught on to that little diversion, I tell you! But time takes a young man’s fancy and turns it into so much dust in the wind, or so they say, and the dream of one day picnicking on La LUNE’s surface evaporated from my frontbrain as I matured through a difficult adolescence.

Then, when I was about 23 years of age, laying in a ditch one night in Belgium under a cloud of mustard gas**, I looked up at that beautiful globe above me and knew in my bones that I’d make it there one day. Many bayonetings and quite a few misunderstandings with the authorities about “just who exactly owned the villa,” I’ve come to fulfill my dream. This time next week, your fair friend GB will dine with his good-friend (and maybe more!), Ms. Hibiscus T. Porridge… on the MOON!

* This is French for “Fantastical Picnics Upon the Moon”

** What they do not tell you is that mustard gas is NOT a delicious, airbourne treat. It is quite foul, and causes gangrene of the testes – something of which *I* never recovered from!

ATTN: Self.

Herewith is a list of MOST Urgent and Required tasks to Accomplish. Most immediately!

• Respond to that ponce, Pliny. Hrumph!
• Acquire three dozen pheasants, twelve large casks of gutterwine, four ounces caviar, seventeen wheels of gouda, twenty-four lettuce heads, fifty carrots (w/attached greens).
• Inquire after Hibiscus’ availability for picnic next week.
• Tidy the rocket (a lady does not take a dirty rocket).
• File flight plan… to the MOON!