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!