I Am Properly Horrified At The Lack Of Dignity Everywhere

Pictured: Harswil Manchester III, Esquire

As I sit here with a glass of Millton Vineyards Opou Chardonnay, dictating my column to Jibsley, who is typing it on the computering mechanism, I am struck by an alarming spot on the wall. This spot is approximately one sixteenth of an inch in diameter, and is an alarming shade of cream, standing out severely on the wall, which is a light cream colour.

How did this spot get there? Why should I have to share my home with such things? These questions are important, but they are not as important as my central observation and main idea of this column: that undignified instances of life, such as the spot, are seeming to pop up in this world more and more every day, something that I find greatly distressing and horrifying.

I have been noticing this phenomenon for quite some time, dating back to the day I noticed our grocer had ceased carrying a certain kind of fine cheese that I adore, replacing it with a brand of lesser quality (although I did not sample the newer cheese, I knew the quality was not up to par because it did not cost as much money as the former brand). But it has been increasing in frequency, I believe, so that on a typical day, such as to-day, these embarrassing instances of less-than-complete sophistication happen far too often.

For example, whilst on the way to a particular play, which I knew relatively nothing about but had heard that anyone with a bit of class had to see, my driver stopped the car for a bit, likely obeying some traffic law that I can't be bothered to learn just now. Happening to glance through the tinted window, I saw a horrifying, mentally scarring sight, one that is certain to add years to my psychiatrist's bill:

A car was next to me that was missing a hubcap cover.

"Just what the devil is going on?" I shouted, spilling a few drops of my Millton Vineyards Opou Chardonnay, which caused me to additionally shout, "Damnit, and zounds!"

"Sir?" enquired Jibsley from the speaker, which is the only way he can communicate to me from his driver's compartment.

"Damnation Jibsley, this is no time for tomfoolery!" I said desperately. I was beginning to wheeze in an asthmatic fashion, not being used to needing to raise my voice above a certain carefully controlled decibel level, but I had no choice. "The not-so-gentleman next to us is missing a hubcap! How the devil has he not yet perished from his social embarrassment?"

"I should hope it's not the sort of thing that will make us look bad in consequence," Jibsley said.

I gasped. I had not even thought of this possibility, but it made all too much sense! Suppose a passerbyer on the sidewalk thought that the dilapidated wreck of a car next to us was part of our party? Why, they might not even let me into the play. Pah, might not, who was I kidding -- they would not!

"Jibsley!" I shouted, gasping for air and falling to the floor. "You're right! Drive!"

"But sir," he protested, "I'm at a red traffic light!"

"I don't know what the devil a blasted light has to do with us driving, and nevermind the colour!" I said, the blood nearly bursting through my eyes. "Just go!"

Jibsley obeyed, and although it drew some horn fire from around us, which made me cringe in terror and fear, it did get us away from the hubcapless wreck, straight from the pits of Hell and onto the boulevard, endangering the very common decency of cars containing all of their parts!

Goodness. I had planned on further detailing the various indecencies I had noticed today, but just retelling this episode has left me drained, and in need of another Millton Vineyards Opou Chardonnay and an episode of Fraiser. I shall have to continue with these accounts some other time, but until then, keep aware, readers! A hubcapless car could be squeaking around somewhere near you!

Harswil Manchester III is the oldest man on the planet, and is wealthier than everyone who ever lived combined and doubled. He is willing to pay $2.50 per year in taxes to educate poor people on how to not be so disgusting.

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