I say, Stainless, old sod, I had no idea that you were bilingual.
Simply too ripping for words!
Riveting tale, sir.
You won’t, and he won’t, for your egregious and repeated failure to lower-case the ‘d’ in his screen name. Gets right shirty about that, he does.
I do believe, old son, that you two can amicably reconcile were you to undress and bask yourself in honey beforehand.
I say, Old Chap, is that sort of thing truly called for?
It simply isn’t the English Thing, you know.
Yeah, use treacle instead.
Have we not a burden, imposed upon from divine providence, to uplift the Doorhinges among us, and provide them gainful employ sweeping the gutters, or as a warm and welcoming pucker, ready to provide succor to sailors just back from sea?
Were you desirous of learning something, Old Sod, or did you arrive to harangue the present company at length?
Uh, if you were my wife, I’d drink it!
“I wish I’d said that.”
“Don’t worry, Winston, you will!”
INsufferable.
That means more than sufferable, right?
The gentlemen at my club all being devotees of P.G. Wodehouse, we well know the tale of the distraught lover who seeks to rid himself of the mementos of his shattered dreams. Having assembled the painful photographs, letters, and trinkets all into a tidy parcel, he ventures forth to the beach and flings the loathsome objects forever out to the sea.
Into this simple finality there now appears the very personification of Doorhinge, in the form of a large and hairy dog. The dog bounds out to sea, retrieves the parcel, and deposits it once more in the possession of our distraught hero. And as the parcel is flung out again and again, it is returned with equal speed, and the resemblance to** Doorhinge** is unmistakable in the hairy dog’s expression of genial imbecility as he once again proffers the parcel to the anguished victim of his adoring ministrations, a repetition that the dog seems willing to undertake in perpetuity, having no other thoughts to occupy him.
Madam, tomorrow I shall be sober, but Doorhinge will still be pontificating that climate science has fooled no one.
That’s right! He did kill Hitler, after all.
Roses are red,
Violets are purple;
He says Doorhinge,
But we know him as D’erple.
That is rather confusing, Old Chap. Have you perhaps been imbibing?
We all make mistakes when we are in our cups, Old Man. Nothing to be ashamed off, very strong coffee in the morning, Old Boy!
I say, what a vivid picture, old bean. I was rather thinking the same thing, though I doubt that I could have expressed it quite as adeptly as you have.
One change, though: I see the Honorable Mister Doorhinge as more of a tiny, yippy dog. The kind that never goes away after you start playing fetch with it. Adorably overflowing with pride that it has found and returned the tiny ball so effortlessly thrown by its master, yet gargantuan compared to the size of its little jaws. Do you all think, perhaps, we could just stop throwing the ball and Good Boy Doorhinge would eventually wander off in search of a new master?
Troll is as troll does.
Good one!
Quite so, old sport, and a capital idea, that. I see now that in characterizing Mr. Doorhinge’s persona as one of genial imbecility I’ve made something of a floater. Imbecility, yes, we find that in abundance. But you are quite correct in surmising that Doorhinge is no more genial than one of those malevolent yipping little ankle-biters, turned sullen and vicious by years of being scorned and kicked about by their masters, and taunted with impunity not only by their refined canine betters but by the neighbourhood stray cats.
A Frenchman then, Old Sport?
Were he French, the gentleman’s moniker would be pronounced dor-AHNZH.