Alienation Effects in Chinese Waitering

Recently discovered in a cigar box: an unpublished set of notes for an unwritten article by the famous East Europeany-type playwright and communist scum-bag Bergamot Beck. It seems like near the end of his career the famous theoretician turned his attention from the stage to the world of foodie-blog criticism. He has certainly left us something to chew on! (don't laugh it's just a blog post).

Imagine yourself walking into any so-called "trendy" restaurant, such as Ottawa's "Town" - a dapper fellow with nice glasses and a slick Hitler youth haircut and a tattoo on the forearm winks your way and casually points you to a table. Watch entranced as he scrawls his precious name, Sydney, Idaho, or Aiden, on your paper table-cloth in a beautifully honed upside-down hand. Ask him anything about the menu; soon you discover he comes from somewhere, enjoys most of the food, has a beautiful smile, is quick witted, loves his band, mom, cat. Presumably your food arrives at some point.

This all-too entrenched form of waitering has, up until this century, been entirely empathetic, and in that sense, Aristotelian, that is, in line with the "cathartic" aspects of the food consumption experience.

Let us contrast the traditional "dramatic school" of Aristotle and the cathartic chefs with the Asian style of waitering. One notices the Chinese have developed the "alienation effect" entirely independently from that of the western Weimar-era Marxist producers (Piscator et al). This can be best observed in a highly developed form at Ottawa's Royal Thai restaurant, where the art of waitering has been honed to scientific exactitude. Before your coat is off you have a tea and a menu; within 30 seconds a new waiter brings you your drinks, inquiring if the bills will be together or separate and nothing about your interests in pomeranians.  Ask about the menu and the answer is either mechanistically accurate or misheard entirely, No divagations. You order food and it is on the notepad before it is off your lips, and a fourth waiter arrives shortly after with your appetizer etc.

At my recent excursion to the Royal Thai, the modes of behaviour shown by the waiters were of a social-historical sort. It was not the "eternally helpful man" that was at my beck and call, but rather the specific hustling encouragement of a man with a definite economic design on you and your wallet. It was the most socially cognizant performance I have seen in my entire career.

The dramatic school of waitering:
-waiters who are gregarious, talkative, sympatico;
- a single waiter to "take care of you";
-waiters with tattoos that they can explain
-make you feel at home at the restaurant;
-give "you guys" lots of time to settle in;
-engage you and your companion(s) on a personal level;
-the meal is a linear plot development that depends on the "effect of the whole";
-service in earnest

The epic school of waitering:
-has stoic waiters, curt, stand-offish
-will send a different waiter for each act, scene, dish, depending on the circumstances - interchangeable masks;
-waiters with tattoos they were branded with in a Chinese prisoner colony;
-will encourage you to eat as quickly and efficiently as possible;
-will have a menu in your face before your coat is off;
-will only treat you as a separate person if there are separate bills;
-the meal is generic and could be experienced in part or in episodes without loss to any "overall effect";
-service in "quotation marks"

The dignity of the thinking being is dependent on its eating habits. Is it not more worthy of a creature aware of its economic and social position to be waited upon in the "epic" manner?

For the dramatic restaurant, the customer always thinks "well, he was such a nice fellow. I should tip him extra" or "well but I felt nothing for her stand-offishness! I'll only give her a little."

In the epic restaurant, on the contrary, one thinks according to dialectical materialism: "everything was so as it was; it would be against the march of the economy not to tip!" In tipping the Chinese waiter, one has no room to tip individuals; one tips the entire culture, the historical and economic process itself.

One goes to the dramatic waiter if one wants to experience the so-called "timelessnesses" or "eternities" of a night filled with unforgettable memories; this is merely a culinary experience and serves as an opiate to the true meaning behind the social forces that encourage fine dining. One thinks "such a fine meal will never come again" and "what a perfect night!" instead of apprehending, coolly and without empathy, the socio-historical circumstances of the present mastication.

The epic waiters, on the contrary, emphasize the historical (transient) situationalism of THIS particular restaurant at THIS particular time - questions such as "why did I come here?" and "I could have gone anywhere else" speak to the true point of dining - that it is entirely and utterly socially determined - that meal types can and will change, have no eternal verities, but only in-stride with social progress. Fried tofu are a means and never an end.

Of course most of western society is not yet mature enough to demand the epic waiter; perhaps it must be forced by the avant-garde. Is it so crazy that we ask restaurants to rush ahead of their public, instead of always lagging behind? The school still requires much development before it is entirely ready to enforce the social change inherent in most forms of pad-thai cooking. Emotional exploitation of base subconscious sympathies must be stopped; it is time the eating public be treated also as a thinking public.

The Way of the Ladyboy

A sage and somber tract on the art of wussfare, by long time friend and artist/humorist/visionary Laura Lake. Read this thoroughly!

Inspired by the historical and literary outpourings of the good people at Kuten, I have decided to use my meager knowledge of the Japanese language to translate into the English language, for the first time, several excerpts from the work of the preeminent master of the onnagata’s art and all-around tranny, Mizuumi Gekkeiju (湖 月桂樹). While Mizuumi’s book mainly applies to the art of boys gussying up to pass themselves off as pretty women, the Japanese have long applied the broad lessons elaborated upon in her* classic manual on strategy, “The Way of the Lady Boy” to such far flung fields as business, robotics research, ramen noodle stand proprietorship, and swordsmanship.

* While politically correct western audiences sometimes ask which gender of pronoun Mizuumi preferred, because the most consistently applied pronoun of the native Japanese roughly translates as “honorable and august sage and progenitor of the revered sacred rites of the refined elegant emanations overflowing with ephemeral aesthetic paroxysms of satori rapture,” most contemporary English writers default to the feminine.

Introduction

I have been many years training in the Way of Strategy, the ultimate realization of which is my Way of the ladyboy. The tranny is one who has mastered strategy. Overwhelming the enemy’s capacity for sexual identification, they crush the foe’s spirit under the terrible might of their male representation of the feminine ideal. Wielding the power of aesthetics, they force their opponent to appreciate and adore them: men cannot help but find themselves maddeningly attracted, women are thrown into a jealous frenzy. This is what is meant by strategy.

From my youth I have immersed my heart in the study of becoming totally fabulous. I first cross-dressed at the age of thirteen, slaying the able effeminate Onna Mitai of the Roriita Fasshon school with this lovely dress and pinafore combination that was just to die for. At sixteen, I defeated the mighty bigot Douseiaiken’o no Ijimekko, who afterwards became one of those obnoxious gits who scream “We recruit” at gay pride parades. At twenty-one I began my effeminate's pilgrimage. Travelling the nation I overcame the heterosexuality of all manner of stud-muffins, never once failing to win their hearts though I had as many as sixty boyfriends... And no, I am not a slut, you're just jealous.

When I turned thirty, for the the fifth year in a row, I looked at myself in the mirror of my compact and concluded that my past victories were not due to my mastery of prettiness. Rather, it was because my opponent’s were too lacking in discernment and taste. As the years passed, I studied night and day to grasp the true way until at last I achieved it, at the age of thirty.

Putting on Foundation

Strategy is the craft of the tranny. There are many ways in this world. The Way of the drunken Japanese businessman, the Way of directing outlandish pornography, the Way of the obsessive hikikomori Otaku fanboy masterbator. Each practices as their character flaws dictate. While others have been known to be gorgeous, the Way of the Ladyboy is different in that it is based on gaining victory over the will of others. By vying against their foes in a battle of cunning, the tranny confounds their very sexuality, controlling their opponent and imposing upon them the belief that they are an attractive member of a sex which they are not.

Outfits

Every outfit has it’s place. The cartoonish hulagirl costume is preeminent over beach terrain while the mink coat is effective when fighting on snowy fronts such as the spot in hockey arena parking lots where zambonis go to take a dump. Even that risque ballerina costume you keep hidden in your closet can be put to good use while singing “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” at your enemy’s funeral. A true strategies should have no preferences. They must be gorgeous in whatever manner the occasion demands.

In modern times there are many drag queens who insist on large breast forms while other’s swear by the more petite boob. This shows how degenerate the spirit of strategy has become today. The master strategist is not dependant upon cup size, but uses all the power at their disposal to force their opponent to want to fondle them. There is no drag queen alive in the world today who truly understands this art.

Comportment

To achieve the gaze of the master strategies one must slightly narrow one’s eyes. This gives the impression that you’d totally rather check out your own eyelashes than your opponent. Some people who are beguiled by the false strategy practiced in other schools, mostly high schools, favor pouty lips and that whole “sultry” look. This makes you look like a whore and is not the true way.

I dislike the three walking methods, “flutter-step,” “prancing-foot,” and “floaty stride.” The proper method of the true strategist is to stick one’s butt out and sashay.

Purse-Cutter

The Purse-Cutter is a powerful technique guaranteed to work against any but the most sissified of opponents. To perform this technique, grasp your short sword firmly in your right hand, but loosely, with the waggling limp-wristedness of a hysterical broad from a Fleischer Brothers cartoon. From there, draw the blade against your scrotum and castrate yourself. At this point your opponent should have passed out from shock. From here you may proceed to go to town with your make-up bag and doll them up like an 18th Century strumpet for your own amusement. The principal behind this technique is to confuse the enemy with notions about how much balls it takes to do such a thing. This technique is only really effective the one time.

Applying Rouge

If the Purse-Slicer fails, you're dealing with a first rate pantywaste, a dangerous foe indeed! Such an opponent is liable to make menstruation jokes at you with all the finesse of a contemporary lady comedian doing stand-up. The one defence against this technique is Applying Rouge. To unleash this devastating attack, spatter your enemy’s coat with your blood while screaming, “fur is murder!” If your opponent isn't wearing any fur, try throwing a cat at them first.

The Book of The Void

The highest realization of my way of strategy is this, my book of void. In order to attain the void, you must dwell upon the following precept: be what you would seem to be–or, if you’d like it put more simply–Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise. You must study this.

By being without being, and other cryptic, mystical hokum and harumscarum, you can maintain your feminine charms even when presenting in an outwardly masculine way. You'll be able rock the baggy boy jeans and dumpy men's hoodies while the fashionistas gush admiringly at your elegance. Others will applaud your lady-like poise as you squat emphatically and do your best Toshiro Mifune impression: “Hmm! Samurai!” You'll even be able to finally convince your boyfriend that as the girl in the relationship you really ought to be the pitcher rather than the catcher.

- MIZUUMI GEKKEIJU

A Catalog for The Discerning Reader

Sir Basil Paprika presents, in another disarmingly charming guest post, a catalog for the discerning reader...

In my capacity as an interpreter of human behavior and amateur psychologist, I have made it my business to sort through not just the greatest of human endeavors, but the refuse and dregs of mankind’s common cultural inheritance. I firmly believe that every idea, no matter how ridiculous it sounds at first, contains a spark of the divine genius that defines our species, that spark of brilliance that puts noble and creative words into the mouths of the young and old, the urban and rural, the rich and the poor alike. It is due to this conviction that I have spent much of my life retrieving from obscurity the discarded brainstorms of so many men and women not lacking in the power to write, merely the confidence to make it known. Often, this means sorting through trash bins. More often than not, one might say. I pay this distasteful task little mind, however, for the rewards are great, and by this I do not simply mean the possibility of acquiring a number of glassware artifacts that might be redeemed for great value at the nearest Liquor Control Board location, but the far more spiritually fulfilling reward of discovering a long-lost manuscript written by some aspiring author without the strength of will required to publish the work. These manuscripts, once retyped at the nearest library, have proved to not only provide enjoyment to many, but also serve as excellent material for cleansing oneself after using the facilities or bushes. Ablutions aside, the value of these documents is immense, and I have therefore commenced publishing them by theme, commencing with those I found covered in some variation of brown sauce. Coincidentally, all those documents are also all stories intended for children that, for one reason or another, never made it to market. I hope it pleases the little tykes even more than staring at my admittedly grotesque face. Gentle reader, for now, consider the following to be a catalogue of interesting works, all of which can be ordered for a small consideration, simply by addressing a letter to the following address:

47 Underthebridge St.
Livingstonipresumeton,
Greenwich Province,
Canada (UK)

Thank you for your attention,
Major Sir Basil Marjoram Paprika (Esq.) (BA, MA, PhD, LLB., T&A, BSc, BS, LoL) (Mad)

1.
Title: How The Nazis Stole Five Christmases: An Explanation of WWII for Children
Excerpt:
“…But whatever the reason, his heart or his shoes, Hitler stood there on Christmas Eve, hating the Jews.”

2.
Title: The Raven-Haired Whore
Excerpt:
“…Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the crazy hot decorum of the countenance she wore,
`Though thy legs be long and sexy, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
With hair the colour raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy business here is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the girl, `I’m a whore.' ”

3.
Title: Lamb-Chop’s Sing Along Song Book!
Includes all lyrics to all songs, including the world famous Song that Never Ends. Volumes 1-57 available now, more to be printed soon.

4.
Title: A Children’s Hand book on How to be Gay in 20 easy steps!
Includes easy to follow diagrams on positioning, ratings of various bathroom stalls, and instructions for fundamentally altering your personality and sexual orientation for the sole purpose of disappointing parents. This book will not only indoctrinate young people irreversibly with the homosexual lifestyle, but will also teach them how to convert others to the worldwide homosexual conspiracy.
Excerpt:
“…thus positioned, take the elastic band and use it on your partner in the manner shown in Figure C. Now get in there and go nuts on those nuts! Don’t forget to use the techniques taught in the last chapter!”
Praise:
“This is just the book I’ve been pretending existed for years!”
-Rev. Pat Robinson and others

5.
Title: Let’s Learn: Bureaucracy!
Excerpt:
Fred the talking Form 12787: ‘So kids, now that we’ve seen the smooth, streamlined, and fun process of acquiring a working visa from the PCTH Bureau through filling out GQH Forms 11 through 54 and inquiring at the VBC desk as to your LKLKLK status while creating a Open Non-Disclosed Disclosure Account (ONDDA), we’ll take a look at how to make actioning work items even MORE fun!’

FUN-ocracy Phil: ‘But don’t forget to fill out the general information section on the next page – it’s required for us to ship the next chapter to you! It should get there in only 1 to 7 months!’

Praise:
“Even better than taking your kids on a tour of a sausage factory!”
-Ben Borington, Department of Administrative Affairs

6.
Title: The Princess and the Penis
Excerpt:
“…and so the princess peeled off layer after layer of covering, searching and searching for that tiny little annoyance that kept her awake all night with its poking and prodding.”
Praise:
“Great puns!”
-No one

7.
Title: Treasury Island
Excerpt:
“…More than half the marketable Treasury debt outstanding is in the form of notes, while bills and bonds each represent about 20 percent (chart 3). Some of the outstanding bonds are callable securities, which may be redeemed by the Treasury before their maturity; however, only noncallable securities have been issued since 1985.”

8.
Title: An Illustrated History of the Children’s Crusades For Children
Excerpt:
“These were thousands and thousands of children just like you, except that they were poor and hungry and forced to leave behind their parents (if they had any), and they all, ALL died, and they died because they loved God and wanted to do some good for the world. Here’s a picture of one of them being sold into slavery by a rich French knight, who was assigned to protect him and whom he deeply and implicitly trusted.”

On Beards

My dear Friend and Kutenist Sir Basil Paprika continues his October onslaught with a dissertation on the beard, its provenance, relevance, and maintenance. I have not met with a finer piece on the matter. An interesting detail - like all great anthropologists and scientists, Spencer is himself removed from his object of study - Jane Goodall was no chimp, Levi-Strauss no savage - Spencer McB is himself a beardless man. His objective viewpoint, and his fascination, can thus be readily explained - sprout on, noble father, sprout on!

With the inevitable approach of Movember and the haggard attempts to sprout magnificent plumes of moustache hair where none had been seen before that will soon be in evidence everywhere, I have been put in the mind of contemplating the reasoning behind facial hair of all types, and thinking about why our culture gives a shit.

Having begun with Movember, I will now stop talking about moustaches at all, and start talking about beards.  (What a segue!  Genius.) The Romans, progenitors of most of our cultural heritage, were almost all clean shaven, and this was back in the day when shaving meant scraping a newly sharpened knife or sword across your face.  Shaving took commitment.  To see a bearded man walking up and down the Via Appia, casually purchasing slaves or participating in orgies, was almost unheard of.  Only Emperors were allowed out in the streets with unshorn faces, and even they didn’t really know what they were doing when it came to beard styles.  Nero’s horror-inspiring neck beard made him, as it was so well put by cartoonist Kate Beaton, “look like a dickhead”.[1]  But how did this tradition of theirs begin?  After all, beards are awesome, aren’t they?  And the Romans were certainly awesome enough to merit awesome beards.  Well, it seems that the Romans didn’t shave at all until Scipio Africanus got it into his head that the blood and intestines of too many Carthaginians were making his beard all messy, and he decided to get rid of the damn thing for the sake of efficiency in both morning ablutions and murder.  So, the first Roman to shave was also one of the most awesome.  So awesome, in fact, that everyone in Rome immediately started copying him and did so for the next six hundred years.

So how did we get to the state where we think that beards are super cool?  We have beard contests, we praise people walking around with bizarre facial hair, exaggerate historical beards to emphasize the magnificence of that particular beard owner, and often equate the masculinity of a person with the viewing pleasure we are granted by looking upon their beard.  Take, for instance, Hemmingway.  Hemingway is one of the founders of contemporary masculinity, and he had a pretty awesome beard.  It is therefore often claimed that beards somehow make someone more awesome, simply because they are emulating one of the most superficial aspects of an awesome man.

I will now finally come to my point by illustrating it with a contrast between the tales of two beards.  The first beard belongs to a man named Jack Passion.  He is the contemporary record holder for beard length in the United States.  I think, anyway.  I couldn’t be bothered to look it up.  I know for certain however, that he has one a great many Beard Contests, using the tremendous girth and redness of his beard to dominate his competitors in a brutal contest of beard strength that will certainly be declared a sport as soon as the obesity level in the States increases a few more notches.  Passion is the owner of what one must admit is a tremendous beard.  He is also a sniveling, arrogant, whiney, pathetic little tool.

Let us contrast Jack Passion (somewhat unfairly) with Kuan Yu, a General of one of many Chinese factions during the 220 CE fall of the Han Dynasty, immortalized by the legendary tales of The Romance of the Three Kingdoms.  He was famous for his loyalty, his unmatched skill in battle, and his beard, and was seen as a paradigm of masculinity.  One day, Kuan Yu was riding innocently across the plains of Northern China, guarding the wife and daughter of his brother in arms, who he was determined to find.  He was confronted by two bandits, who, failing to recognize him immediately, challenged him to a duel.  Now, Kuan Yu had already killed about 50 people that day and so wished to avoid further conflict, as the ease of victory bored him somewhat.  So instead of drawing his sword, he dismounted his horse and took off the hair net bag he had been using to protect his beard.  The long, flowing, straight sheer black hair tumbled slowly down, uncoiling from the tight cylindrical bun in which it rested into a long black line of inimitable beauty.  The stark black length of hair, freed from all constrains, swayed gently in the wind, moving as one, as when a swarm of grasshoppers move together to darken the sky with their shadows and seem to move with one mind.  The glint of the sun off the silken hairs moved the hearts of all who saw it.  The anger of the bandits was unable to withstand the glorious sight, and as they looked upon that beard they realized that they stood in the presence of a great man.  They clamored down off their horses and dedicated their lives to Kuan Yu in perpetuity, offering up their very souls if doing so could aid him in his quest.

So what is the difference between these two beards?  That of Jack Passion impresses only in a technical sense.  We measure our surprise upon seeing its redness, and we then measure its length, width, and volume, in order to determine that he has an impressive beard.  The beard of Kuan Yu impresses itself upon men’s souls, not merely because of its beauty, but because of the way he wields that beard.  He is the one who makes his beard impressive, not the other way around.  Likewise, the Vikings weren’t awesome because they had beards – they were so awesome that they made their beards look cool.  Hemingway wasn’t masculine because he could wear a beard well, he was masculine because of the way he lived his life, and that life made the beard seem masculine.  Passion’s beard, despite its length, is supported by no true character underneath, and will never truly impress.  It is the man that makes the beard, not the other way around.  Adding or subtracting facial hair from one’s face does nothing to make or reduce a man (or woman, I guess).  One’s awesomeness is defined by one’s actions, not one’s facial hair.  And that is why I will not be wearing a moustache for Movember. (Expert conclusion!  Nailed it again.)

The Gentleman Choler

The gentleman associate of our refined establishment, laying such stress as he does on precision of the hour, and who, much to his horror, finds that he unwittingly gains a free moment or two through a slip of the schedule between his afternoon game of whist and cucumber sandwiches at brillig, would do well not to panic immediately, but to hold off his girlish peals of despair until he has undertaken a thorough perusal of this emergency pamphlet. We at the Preserves Club have thought up a list of ex tempore advisories and activities which we present in good order for the memorization and careful contingency planning of our punctilious patrons.

Remember that the first step is NOT to panic. The gentleman will be confused. His composure will start to express itself it in harumphs of ever increasing gruffitude. His eyes may start to wander from the safe co-ordinates of drink table and armchair to the more voyeuristic angles of ceiling and hallway tile-counting. We advise the gentleman who starts to notice such symptoms of hysteria, to consult his pocket-watch continuously until the effects start to subside. Consult it with vigour and purpose, knit your brows, place it back in your pocket. Walk a few steps, and yes, consult it again. Repeat until calm.

Now that the gentleman is in a neutralized emotional equilibrium, he can begin in good conscience to plan his escape from the grips of that Tyrant, Free-Time. But first: has the gentleman read the Times thoroughly? And the Gazette? Has he perhaps considered condescending to the Post for a lark? Or, if he's really feeling frisky, the Community Bulletin? If he has despairingly answered yes to the preceeding questions, we must recommend that he turn to some more explicitly lurid reading materials. As distasteful as it may sound, there is no sounder cure for an extra few seconds than the stimulation of base, lustful desire in the under-cummerbundical regions. Accordingly our gentleman will betake himself to Shame Hall immediately to choose an appropriate booth, each stocked with the foulest forest of depraved literature we could legally acquire. We suggest starting with the latest Garfield to really get his ginger snapping.

If our gentleman is not feeling up to the litterae humaniores, we might suggest that he take an afternoon constitutional. Such promenades have not been unheard of on the Continent, and a similar institution at Boston has recently implemented a strolling regimen for all its club members to universal approbation and vomiting. We realize that the world outside the Club is large, and largely, frightening. We have therefore taken the precaution of directing the gentleman's steps with a trail of finely painted leather-patent footprints (Italian, continental sizing 43). These lead all throughout the town, down to the harbour, up through the square, and back safely to the club; the gentleman need not fear that he might err into dangerous alleyways or offensive foodstufferies. We cannot account for the safety of any member who steps off the trail. Josiah Gudburp, esq., disappeared in this very way, stepping aside as he did one day for a rather dubious cat and dog combination charging towards his intended trajectory. He was found two weeks later, done up in a jester's outfit, dead, and quite pickled, in a barrel of marshmallow brine water. Gentleman, take heed. If no heed is available, take it cold two times a day. There's a good lad.

After his walk, the gentleman will certainly want to do something to sooth his over-stimulated nerve-endings. To this end we recommend an activitiy from the feminine sphere, shopping. Bookstores, record shops, and knick-knackeries are always a good choice, and provide the gentleman with ample opportunity for practicing the classical art of eavesdropping. The gentleman with an ear tuned to the risqué will be amplifiably rewarded. He will hear stories of price-mark downs and previous purchases. He will be hear squabbles between couples over which mantle decoration to buy. He will hear the sweet romancing of a cashier in his illicit transactions with multiple patrons. The gentleman's frisson will be considerable. If he is careful, he might even engage in some conversation himself. Asking for a price-check on some item is a good start, but requires boldness of character. Our more phlegmatic members will satisfy themselves with an accepted greeting, a  "hello", "afternoon", or "good plague" on entering the store. Do not be hesitate to sit down after such exertions.

If the gentleman still has time left-over, he may make his way over to the Public House for a pint of something and a chat with the lads. The gentleman may order any beer he pleases, with the caveat that any fruit-flavoured beverage may lead to a rather unpleasant assault on linen, silk, and starch known in common dialect as a "wedgie". If the gentleman will direct his eyes upwards, he may catch the latest sporting event on television. He should feel free to gasp whenever an object moves on the field. When the figures on the television seem agitated, he should begin gyrating and grunting so as not to seem out of the loop. He may at this point engage his chair-mates in conversation. Speak anything on your mind, so long as you have undergone a mental check of a fifteen minutes dwelling on the idea, so as to ensure maximum efficiency of word order, emphasis, and vocabulary. If you can insert the term "tits" anywhere in your discourse, you will win favour with the vox populi. There is only one thing that should be considered taboo among the plebeians, and that is the finer accoutrements of a manor squire's salon. This includes the new Renoir you've acquired for the drawing room, for envy knows no bounds. Talk instead about a new tool you've acquired. Maybe a wrench? Or a fine 18th century Venetian trowel?

With these many activities, we consider the gentleman's time as good as spent, and that bothersome portion of his life as good as over and done with. He may now attend to his Ox-Bladder on Toast in security of his future. If, unfathomably, he somehow exhausts the contents of this list, either through an unsavoury heat of the blood leading to extensive activity, or a particularly long life (and good hale to him!), we have devised the following methodology for creating your own amusements from scratch: first, open the issue of Earblocker's Quarterly we have appended to this form. Select three words at random through a handy Sortes Virgillianae. Distribute these words, using appropriate conjunctions and particles, into a coherent course of action. Do you have it? Is it bold? Startling? Has your psyche subconsciously put together a wild and tempting new source of adventure that you are raring to attempt? Excellent. You may now recreate the scene using paste (provided) and coloured macaronies (provided). Display it at Pumperknickel Square, and prepare to be the new gallant homme of the club. Do not attempt any activity beyond this without consulting the club physician.