I am deeply ashamed of myself. Not only has my terrible addiction to a hateful Scottish game called "golf" caused me to make a sinful wager with one of the evil bloggers from Peep This Diary, but my consistently frightful slice and my abominable putting have caused me to lose that wager—which required me to post a list of the "three things I like most" about that unpleasant and poorly maintained blog. You may witness my humiliation and read my shameful (albeit extremely well put together) guest post here.
Monday, September 17, 2007
I must admit that my plans to enact a righteous revenge against the godless bloggers from Peep This Diary for murdering my poor brother Patrick were thrown up in the air somewhat this week, when I discovered that Patrick is, in fact, not really dead at all. As Jack put it, when we discussed this new turn of events over a game of golf (which I won handily, btw—seven years playing "strike the coconut" with the natives on my island paid off!), "It's just so typical of Patrick to throw everyone's plans into disarray. The best sign you could have that you've come up with a brilliant evil scheme is when Patrick strides in at the last minute to ruin the whole thing." I would not normally make a habit of agreeing with such a profligate wretch, but it must be said that he has a point.
I am still weighing the option of murdering Jack and his friend anyway—just for the principle of the thing—but the whole affair has really taken the wind out of my sails a bit.
Nice to see Patrick again, though.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Last night, the spiteful little monsters held a mockery of a funeral for my dear brother, which the devil himself would have been pleased with. The vile guests at this satanic ritual consisted of a selection of local thieves, briggands, and murderers; a number of whores from the local bawdy house; and—worst of all—a group of academics from the Royal Society.
At the end of this abomination, I walked into full view of the revelers and waited for them to see the avenging angel whose sworn duty it is to rage against them with the full righteous might of our Lord and Saviour, and punish them for their foul sins (me, that is). Watching their faces turn white with fear before they scattered, screaming for their lives (except that infuriating drunk, Jack, who simply slid down beneath a table and began scratching at his nether regions) was the first moment of happiness I have experienced since 1668, when I finally succeeded in teaching the natives on the island that held me prisoner to play whist.
Next week, I strike! I cannot even describe what joy it brings me to think that before long, I shall be plunging my dagger into the bellies of my enemies, and ripping their foul innards out—that their last sight on this earth will be of the very depths of their own sinful bodies.
P.S. The rash is gone, mostly. There's just a bit of a reddish area now on my bottom. It still itches a bit, but I don't think it's anything to worry about—probably just a reaction to my new cotton breeches. Quite a relief, and a lesson not to make any more purchases in cheapside! :)
I have sent those nasty little brutes a letter detailing my plans (I left out the part about how I will string them up by their legs and gut them, as I infuriatingly ran out of paper just as I was getting going), but at least they are now aware of my intentions towards them. Now, Edward, put away your sense of mercy, and charge forward with God's work of revenge before you lose your resolve! Bloody murder shall be done before this month is out!
Also, I have developed this worrying rash on my backside, just above my left thigh. It's not bad—it hasn't spread or anything—but it's bothering me enough that I really do think I ought to have someone look at it.
After ten long years stranded amongst hideous savages whose idea of a good time was poking a monkey with a stick to see what it would do, I have finally returned to England, and civilization. I will tell you the story of my rescue another day, but I am faced with more pressing matters now. My first task upon arriving in London was to seek out my beloved brother, Patrick, and after asking in every respectable establishment, I finally happened upon a black-toothed Dutchman named Hans Broekman who told me a tale that made me weep with grief and rage.
According to Mr. Broekman, my dear Patrick had taken to associating with a pair of unchristian mercenaries who had turned his thoughts away from the Lord and in the direction of that foulest of demons—Profit. These reprobates have taken to posting accounts of their vile misdeeds on a hideous, sinful blog called Peep This Diary, and there I learned of their unforgivable crime against me and my family: Some weeks ago (oh, what cruel fate that I did not return earlier), they sent my poor, impressionable brother on a fool's errand to India on a ship captained by none other than Gustavo Araoz—the very man who left me for dead after wrecking our ship in a monsoon so many years ago. According to the logs of the East India Company, which I hastened to check after learning this horrible news, the ship never reached its destination, and my only brother now rests at the bottom of the ocean, while his cruel friends continue their sinful lives of leisure without so much as a word of regret.
I shall have my revenge!