07 May 2005

Letter to the Good Brother, I

Every family has one; the good child. The one that got seventeen A levels and thirty two O levels. The one that saved the Pope’s life and found the cure for cancer. The one that didn’t change Newcastle from the charming bucolic paradise of yesteryear to the mutagenic hell hole of Geordie chavism that it is today (Look, I said I was sorry, OK? Christ, you’d think that re-arranging peoples DNA without their consent was a crime or something).

Anyhoo, my brother turned away from the path of the evil scientist and went to work for Her Majesty’s Government.

This, I suppose, is the next best thing.

We fell out of touch until recently, when I found out that through dint of hard work and talent, he was rewarded with a position of import along with a posh house, car, and most importantly an enormous entertainment liquor budget. Naturally, I had to write to congratulate him cadge an invite.

Dear Brother,

Thanks to the strange situation where being related to me is not a political leg iron (this will, of course, change as soon as MI6 can obtain the necessary court orders), and a brand new Ronco Metaphor MixMaster3000™, I find myself caught betwixt the horns of a conundrum: Precisely how many rounds should one fire into the air while celebrating one’s brother’s ascension to the lofty realms of H.M.’s Government?

The desiccated old harridan, Emily Post, suggests 17 rounds from 12 pound Napoleon smooth-bores, but that would surely invoke a negative response from my neighbors; perhaps to the point of depleted Uranium (this is Pennsylvania, after all). I’m not at all sure that the Slanty Shanty™ could withstand such an onslaught of gratuitous ordnance.

Furthermore, the hoary traditions of our native “Hard Liquor and Handgun Nights” have not yet been codified, as our secretary, Bubba Rundqvist, keeps getting arrested before he can put pencil to paper.

Thus, I find myself having to make a judgment call. I sincerely hope that I haven’t insulted Her Majesty’s Gov’t. with the following salute:

1 sealed milk jug of petrol thrown on the bonfire; (an act which, incidentally, put paid to my eyebrows, as well as a superfluous out-building or two belonging to my neighbors.)
2 bricks of “Out of State” fire crackers.
3 magazines from a somewhat illicit AK-47 (5 Jams, for a total of 85 rounds).
4 largish home-made rockets (even though this has brought the Welsh to a state of high alert; something I regret, as I understand that they were on our side during the second World War… something about providing grape juice to the allied armies).
5 maidens ululating
6 packs, a drinkin’
Things became rather hazy at this point. (NB. I intend to have the partridge; late of the pear tree for Sunday dinner.)

I trust HM Govt. will accept this in the reverential manner in which it was intended (prior to the eighth drink). May I still come and visit?

Your affectionate and medicated brother,
E. Scientist, phD.

And that's the way I likes it.