Depew Accepts Delivery of Nine Hundred Live Hogs. The Earl Exchanges A Tyrolian Hat
I’d quite forgotten the impending expiry of Live Hogs for November Contract from the trading pit at the Piltdown exchange. In my absence the Dutchess reports that Depew, not content to lean on his rake on the front lawn for hours at a time, has accepted delivery of nine hundred live hogs on my behalf. Never one to be laying blame at the doorstep of others, I’ve sent instructions that hogs be set free to ” roam my property, engage in complex social discourse ( among themselves as I see it) and pursue their hog destinies and/or hog activities and not be interfered with nor harassed.” Unfortunately the text of my missive was sent in error to Agent 007 as an ‘email query.’ One can only hope that Haskell, reputedly the sensible one, has already ‘reached out’ as Tony Prawns in so fond of saying. I hope this latest setback to my as yet unburgeoning literary career may be overcome by the sheer volume of queries, and that, perhaps, in the course of events, 007 might find her interest piqued by my noblesse oblige in this regard.
As we travel the scenic byways of rural Oregon, Lars informs that my Kiss Me, I’m Norwegian baseball cap is now among the missing. In its place he has plundered a green felt Tyrolian chapeau, one more stylish than the purloined one. As he explores his inner Viking, Lars is proving an invaluable guide in this adventure. We skirted the very large settlement of Portland, thrusting ever closer to the bejeweled Los Angeles, still south of our current position despite the inevitable plate activity beneath her surface. We plan to dine on corndogs…soon all memory of haute cuisine will be erased. YHS, The Earl.