The Marquis de Flo-burner swallowed hard as he attempted to pass the mango pit, and he wished for all the world that either
a. He had not ingested the mango pit
or
b. He had ingested, at the same time, some of Dr. McCoy's special colon dressing.
People were always wishing, after the fact, that they had dressed their colons with liberal doses of Dr. McCoy's coyote-colored wonder drug. The stories were legion of how the dressing had saved many a colon from certain destruction, yet the stories of less fortunate paths likewise mounted in great number. Mr. Wilpaseur Blankenburg of Nutterwood Terrace would have given anything to have remembered the treatment prior to his fatal ingestion of 17 cracked-pottery souffles.
Alas.
As it turned out that day, the Marquis de Flo-burner managed to pass that mango pit just fine, and afterward as he wiped his (wait for it) brow he gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving for such deliverance. Down the steps, away from the reredorter he scurried, hardly noticing the small piece of tissue adhering to the heel of his left shoe – a size 11 cordovan wingtip jackboot with sharpened steel aglets upon the lace ends. The tissue was noticed, however, by Fancy Jemima, his rock gardener and former wetnurse. Fancy Jemima was most observant, and as the Marquis' favorite philosopher had once said, “you can observe a lot by looking at things.” So it was with Fancy Jemima.
The road that led to the tiny outbuilding that housed the reredorter was strewn with tiny, broken bits of sticks and shredded twigs that had formerly been parts of the Marquis' ship-in-a-bottle collection, but of which he had grown tired and decided to scuttle. His size 11 lace-up jackboots crunched as he scurried. Crunch, crunch, crunch went the scuttled ships-in-bottles. Crunch, crunch, crunch went the little bits of wood that were but remnants of his energies and talent. Fancy Jemima took note of his uncaring attitude toward the little bits of wood, and filed this away for safe keeping and later use. The Marquis de Flo-burner scurried all the more quickly – scurrying all the way to Squirty's Lounge. Squirty's Lounge had opened last April-month with a flourish of critical acclaim. The review in the Holyoake Gazetteer read thusly:
HOLYOAKE – Minor nobles from among the crowned heads of Europe and the Berkshires are most excited to partake in the opening festivities at the city's newest Marquis- and Baron-watering hole, a fine establishment known to those of a decidedly upperish-crust as “Squirty's Lounge.” Squirty himself is a pompous and obese man with glandular ailments, known for his displays of public largesse and nudity masquerading as art, and who hails from a small village in the Catskills. Cocktails and appetizers (pompously yet stylishly labeled hors d'oeuvres) will be served on most evenings when the moon is full and green fairies flit through the ether (let the reader understand). Reservations are suggested.
And so another evening was spent at Squirty's Lounge – the Marquis appearing to be sprouting a barstool from the cleavage of his butt-cheeks. The Marquis was ever so fond of that graciously-hyphenated word - “butt-cheeks.” He would attempt to use it in all manner of sentence whenever he could, and so his speech was littered with references to his lower quadrants.
Such a pity. It was his left pectoral muscle that was his finest feature.
As the Marquis sipped his chipotle-tini and dreamed of new colors of leather from which to craft wing-tipped jackboots, Fancy Jemima wandered into Squirty's Lounge and sidled up to the Marquis. She shot a glance at the barstool sprouting from his butt-cheeks, and suddenly felt such pity for the Marquis. She reached out with a caring hand and tenderly touched his shoulder. The Marquis slowly turned and their eyes met. The moment was electric. Silence hung between their sullen eyeballs. Fancy Jemima's pouty, bee-stung lips opened in a most tender, thoughtful, and caring gambit.
“You had some ass-wipe stuck to yer' shoe when you ran outta' da shitter t'day.”
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