Sunday, January 28
My brother said a true thing:
I was invited to take part in a dinner party at my dear brother's abode this evening. As you know, invitations to Linquist Manor are hard to come by, so I was pleased to accept the invitation, and even went so far as to gift a shiny farthing to the young man who helped me up from the sidewalk.
Whilst strolling to Linquist Manor, I received an urgent missive from my host and brother, Wellingford Linquist. Wellingford said that his wife, Polly Linquist (née Papadopoulos) was in the mood for some wine. Would she like red or white? "Surprise us," they said.
At the spirit shoppe, I chose what I believed to be the perfect compliment to the candied pork and Spanish rice dish that the servants had been ordered to make.
As one would expect, the dining was delightful. After the third course, whilst the nannies were tucking the young Linquist progenies into bed, Wellingford broke out his Armellini pipe and began to smoke. "Alan", he queried, "How much did you pay for this Chardonnay?"
"I dunno, like three Finns or something", I replied as I scooped some rice into the pocket of my threadbare jacket for later consumption. I employed my streetsmart subterfuge: "Hey, that tobacco smells like old furniture and cherries. Neat! Are those girders oak or hickory? Look up at the ceiling of your beautiful house, Wellingford!" Free rice.
"My dear boy", Wellingford stated, "Everyone knows that all wines that cost between ten and twenty American dollars taste exactly the same. Precisely the same, even. The only reason lower-middle class people like yourself choose one winery above another is because you are enamored of the funny pictures on the label. Also, the girders are made of maplewood, and you have a hole in your pocket."
I'll never bring Monkey Bay wine to his house again. Next time I'll go with Smoking Loon. That's probably good, right?
I was invited to take part in a dinner party at my dear brother's abode this evening. As you know, invitations to Linquist Manor are hard to come by, so I was pleased to accept the invitation, and even went so far as to gift a shiny farthing to the young man who helped me up from the sidewalk.
Whilst strolling to Linquist Manor, I received an urgent missive from my host and brother, Wellingford Linquist. Wellingford said that his wife, Polly Linquist (née Papadopoulos) was in the mood for some wine. Would she like red or white? "Surprise us," they said.
At the spirit shoppe, I chose what I believed to be the perfect compliment to the candied pork and Spanish rice dish that the servants had been ordered to make.
As one would expect, the dining was delightful. After the third course, whilst the nannies were tucking the young Linquist progenies into bed, Wellingford broke out his Armellini pipe and began to smoke. "Alan", he queried, "How much did you pay for this Chardonnay?"
"I dunno, like three Finns or something", I replied as I scooped some rice into the pocket of my threadbare jacket for later consumption. I employed my streetsmart subterfuge: "Hey, that tobacco smells like old furniture and cherries. Neat! Are those girders oak or hickory? Look up at the ceiling of your beautiful house, Wellingford!" Free rice.
"My dear boy", Wellingford stated, "Everyone knows that all wines that cost between ten and twenty American dollars taste exactly the same. Precisely the same, even. The only reason lower-middle class people like yourself choose one winery above another is because you are enamored of the funny pictures on the label. Also, the girders are made of maplewood, and you have a hole in your pocket."
I'll never bring Monkey Bay wine to his house again. Next time I'll go with Smoking Loon. That's probably good, right?
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I don't think my brother knows about Yokels, so I don't feel too bad about creating a story about him.
For the record, though, my brother is nothing but the salt of the earth, which is why it was fun to write that thing. If I got to pick out of all of our siblings, I would pick Wellingford everytime. He's smart and funny, and realistic, and frankly, you couldn't pick a better big brother.
He did say that thing about the wine, though. He's right, too.
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For the record, though, my brother is nothing but the salt of the earth, which is why it was fun to write that thing. If I got to pick out of all of our siblings, I would pick Wellingford everytime. He's smart and funny, and realistic, and frankly, you couldn't pick a better big brother.
He did say that thing about the wine, though. He's right, too.
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