My awful agony is exegiously ended! The pernicious piles have passed!
A misfortunate mishap in my baronial bathroom this a.m. while anxiously attempting to faciliatate a particularly perilsome pooh's exteriorisation resulted in my ungainly unseating from the throne. One strenuous surge too many and I plunged headlong into a bathroom cabinet of shoddy workmanship and in the ensuing fracas managed to wedge my prolapsed posterior in my paisley shower bag.
One sharp jerk and I was five pounds of flesh to the lighter, having omitted to remember that the shower valise contained my trusty cut-throat razor.
The flow of blood was most worrisome but my trusted man-servant Meadows applied a tourniquet with the expertise of a Cretan whore. He was as encouraging as a college Don when the doctor left:
Quote:Meadows: I may infer sir that you might be offering yourself for more active service now that your sphincter has resumed working order?
Me: Your inference is leading by a length in the final furlong, Meadows. Now pop that flotsam in a jar and put it on the mantelpiece. It will make an excellent conversation piece on card-night. Once the wound heals I shall give the vile invaders a good old-fashioned anal trafalgaring!
I never imagined that impromptu surgery would be so helpful. The great Bretonian stomach for pain is second to none.
To the devil with anaesthetics and your nancy-boy antibiotics! Confound talk of field hospitals! If a dicky war-horse such as myself can remove a pile from his own arse with a Gilette razor, we'll win this war in no time!
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