The epistolary musings of Blogcritics Aaron Fleming, of Generic Mugwump, and The Duke De Mondo, of Mondo Irlando, presented at regular intervals by way of appeasing scholars of the popular culture and also minimizing the profits of possible paramilitary-linked bootleggers.
Matters relating to Sympathy For The Devil.
The Duke De Mondo Writes To Aaron Fleming;
I write to you for to relate the details of a most peculiar encounter done rattled the timbers o' Wednesday past something altogether shocking. I can scarcely believe it myself, truth be told, and would do no such thing, as it happens, were it not for my impeccable standing in the church. No man who attends his house of worship with such regularity and with such a sense of pride and evangelical fervor could e'er be accused of concocting a tale the likes of which I will recount herein.
Now, what happened was this;
On the Wednesday evening in question I had made my way to the rectory for an hour or two's worth o' modest cuisine and grand chat, and all at the behest of a certain Reverend Willy Phillips, a most charming individual, all being told.
Sat there by the hearth in the front room, myself and the minister passed forty-six or forty-nine minutes exchanging this tale or that concerning one or the other nights of the previous week, and what we might have gotten up to, and who might've joined us and where we might've poked one another, weather permitting. Just under an hour of this, says I, afore Phillips leaps to his feet and gets to flailing the arms in the throes o' a sore savage kerfuffle o' the brain-wax.
"Dear Lord!" says he, "I've just remembered!"
Turned out, Phillips was at that very moment supposed to be present at a highly important appointment arranged sixteen days hitherto, and could stand on this carpet not a second longer, lest his peers curse him raw for all the unobliging bastards o' the day and night and noontide.
Apologizing no end, for he is a man stacked to the backs o' the balls with none but the finest of manners, he suggested I might instead like to spend the evening in the company of his cousin, a woman who had moved to Barcelona three years back, but who had returned to the village a fortnight past for reasons of a family grievance.