SOME ADVICE FOR THE LADIES

From Mr. Debonair, of course.

Whenever you have to wipe your Crack,
Remember to wipe from Front to Back.
If you should wipe from Back to Front,
You risk getting itchy in your Business.

(You didn’t think someone as classy as Mr. Debonair would say “cunt,” do you?)

MR DEBONAIR’S FASHION TIPS

Summer is, next to spring, Mr. Debonair’s favorite season. That is because it is the perfect time to indulge one’s Sense of Whimsy.

You know what a Sense of Whimsy is, don’t you? Of course you do.

SWMBO has one.

Velociman has one.

And Mr. Debonair has one, too. A Sense of Whimsy, coupled with an unerring ability to spot the latest fashion trends...and shit all over them.

Behold: Martini Madness!


Mr. Debonair models his Martini Madness Slacks.

You really cannot appreciate these Fine Pantaloons unless you check ’em out up close:


Little cocktail shakers and Martini glasses!

Perfect for a few holes of golf down at the Country Club, or for tippling after tennis, these impressive machine-embroidered pants - made in some sweaty, God-forsaken country like Indonesia where a Martini is but a distant pipe-dream fantasy to the impoverished factory serfs who produce them - come with an official Letter of Commendation from the Republican National Committee.

Admit it. You want a pair, don’t you? Sure you do.

Mr. Debonair knows.

THE COMPLEAT JACKASS

The Compleat Jackass.

As Mr. Debonair will tell you, you cannot be a Compleat Jackass unless you have a pair of Jackass Pants. Or, in this case, Jackass Shorts.

Each pair Brooks Brothers sells comes with a form for enrollment in the Republican Party...and the local Country Club.

Of course, you cannot consider yourself a Truly Compleat Jackass without that most critical fashion accessory...

Mr. Debonair models the latest in Colander Fashions.

...the Colander!

MR. DEBONAIR’S GOURMET CORNER

Traveling the world in search of the exotic and unusual is Mr. Debonair’s bread and butter. When a rare or unfamiliar dish shows up on the menu, he will, often as not, try it so that he will be able to share the experience with his Esteemed Readers.

Turning up his nose at Scary Food - like Singaporean Fish Head Curry, for example - is not an option. It’s all in a day’s work.

Recently, Mr. Debonair had the chance to savor a really unusual treat: Ocean Oysters.

“But, Mr. Debonair!” you will say. “Oysters do not grow in the ocean! They prefer intertidal or subtidal zones!”

True enough, Mister Wikipediapants. But Rocky Mountain oysters (AKA Calf Fries), while they may be found in the Rocky Mountains, are not oysters at all...and neither are their aquatic cousins, Ocean Oysters.

Ocean Oysters are nothing more (or less) than whale testicles. A delicacy! And big enough to satisfy any gourmand, because the average blue whale testicle is the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.

[The blue whale balzac? Think of a wrinkly raisin, magnified to the dimensions of a small Quonset hut and encased in a thick coating of blubber.]

Cooking one of these Big Boys takes some effort. The usual preparation is to slice the whale testicle into two-inch-thick cross-sections, using a band saw. These can then be subdivided into smaller steaks, each the diameter of a dinner plate. Breaded and fried (in whale oil, of course!), a single Ocean Oyster steak makes a whopping big Dinner Entrée. As with a chicken-fried steak, cream gravy is an appropriate accompaniment.

Now, if only we Americans can get over our silly hang-ups about harvesting and consuming whale protein, we can give them Prime Ribs of Beef a run for their money...

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair,

Is it appropriate to trim one’s fingernails at the Breakfast Table?

Sincerely,
Somewhat Disgusted

Dear Disgusted,

In addressing this question to Mr. Debonair, you knew the answer before you even asked the question, didn’t you?

Of course you did.

And I shall not disappoint you. I will state that, unless you were raised by wolves, the only appropriate place to trim one’s fingernails is in the bathroom, preferably standing near a sink so that the trimmings may be easily caught and disposed of.

If one is trimming one’s toenails, it is preferable to find a comfortable seat in the bathroom rather than to trim the nails at one’s bedside, as the trimmings have an unfortunate way of lodging in out-of-the-way places where they may be discovered (with some modest discomfort) with one’s bare feet.

To trim one’s fingernails at table - be it at breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or supper - is revolting. And imagine the possibility of a stray nail clipping embedding itself in one’s food. Even worse, a companion’s food. How loathesome!

And to trim one’s toenails at table...why, that is beyond revolting. But Mr. Debonair has lived a long time, and Mr. Debonair has seen many things, not all of which have been pleasant. It is regrettable that one cannot “unsee” such things, but, well, there you are.

AND NOW, A MESSAGE FROM MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Reader, observe these words with care:
Wipe when you’re finished on the Porcelain Chair!
A one-swipe wipe for a lump down there,
A two-swipe wipe for a chunk down there,
A three-swipe wipe for a loaf down there,
Wipe when you’re finished on the Porcelain Chair!

Chorus:
Wipe, readers! Wipe with care!
Wipe when you’re finished on the Porcelain Chair!

[Apologies to Noah Brooks, Isaac Bromley, W. C. Wyckoff, Moses P. Handy, and the incomparable Samuel Langhorne Clemens.]

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Herewith an inquiry from a fellow Jawja Blodger:

Dear Mr. Debonair,

What is the simplest way of thawing a frozen turkey in the shortest time possible?... or do I just have to practice my Russian accent, open the fridge every so often, poke it with a trowel and pretend it's a Siberian mammoth?... the label lied, Mr. Debonair... so what's the scoop?...

Sincerely,
Straight White Chef

Dear Straight,

Your question was especially timely, as I, too, faced a Thawing Issue this morning as I prepared to roast a goose - yes, a goose - to serve as one of the main courses at this evening’s Dinner in the Tradition of the Royal Navy.

I had purchased the goose several days ago, frozen as hard as a chunk of anthracite. I figured that four days in the fridge would soften it up...and it did, albeit incompletely. The thing was still rock-solid at the core, and it took a frantic cold-water immersion to get it to the point where I could yank the entrails out of its ass remove the giblets comfortably.

And thus, I share your pain. Here you were, ready to regale your guests with a succulent Roast Turkey, and instead, you found a bird-shaped cinderblock in your fridge. Bring on the porkchops! So much for following the directions on the package.

The fact is, thawing a large bird is tricky. You want the critter to stay cold, as bacteria multiply rapidly once the temperature gets much above 40°F. But you don’t want to be asking your dinner guests to wait until Christmas 2016.

The key - as at least one of your commenters has already noted - is to immerse the bird in cool water. Water has an excellent heat transfer coefficient, which means that cool water will thaw your turkey a lot faster than warm air...and the meat will remain safe to eat.

You’ll still need a few hours, but that beats waiting until the proverbial cows come home. Unless you eat the cows, in which case, who gives a shit whether your turkey ever thaws out?

MR. DEBONAIR SHARES A RECIPE

Dear Mr. Debonair,

I love creamed herring, but the kind they sell at our local market is kind of bland. Can you offer any ideas on how to make it a little more appealing?

Sincerely,
Bored Fish

Dear Bored,

I share your pain. There have been so many occasions on which I have said to Mrs. Debonair, “Darling, this would have been a perfect meal except for the bland herring.” She does not take offense at this, as she has nothing to do with the Herring Selection: any quality defects are invariably my fault. Mrs. Debonair loathes pickled fish.

But there is a simple way to take your average, everyday bottled Creamed Herring and jack it up. Kick it up a notch, as my Stovewhore Buddy Emeril is wont to declaim. Bam!

All you do is take your bottled herring - Vita is a perfectly workable brand - and add a modest dose of lemon zest and grated Granny Smith apple. (Be sure to grate the apple with the peel on.) Cover and let it sit in the refrigerator for a few hours - or overnight - for the flavors to marry. Exquisite!

Now, do as Mr. Debonair does. Leave the herring on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, way in the back where you won’t remember it for a month. Then, when your fridge starts developing a strange pong reminiscent of a k.d. lang concert, discover the herring. Discard.

MR. DEBONAIR: FASHION FORWARD

There has been a whole lot written recently about the latest fashion trend amongst observant Jews: wearing Crocs on Yom Kippur.

Because Jewish law prohibits the wearing of leather shoes on the Day of Atonement, it’s common to see people show up at services wearing suits...and sneakers. But now Crocs, those popular plastic sandal-like shoes, have attracted a considerable following, according to the JTA News Service:

From secular beachgoers in Tel Aviv to right-wing Orthodox settlers in Hebron, Crocs - the bulbous-toed, open-back, rubber summer shoe - already were ubiquitous in Israel. Now, reports from several synagogues across America suggest, Crocs have surpassed Chuck Taylors, Keds, flip-flops and a host of other options to become the Yom Kippur shoe in the United States.

Crocs - the perfect Yom Kippur Shoe!

Of course, Mr. Debonair, our very own Fashion Consultant at Blog d’Elisson, is way ahead of you...as you can see in this post from one year and one day ago. Yep - you heard it here first.

And best yet: Not only are Crocs the perfect Yom Kippur shoe (after all, they’re holey), they also are just the thing to wear on Tisha b’Av!

AN OPEN LETTER FROM MR. DEBONAIR

To the Young Man Driving The White Pickup Truck on Roswell Road at 2:05 p.m., Who Wished to Make a Left-hand Turn onto Indian Hills Parkway and Who Was Unfortunately Positioned in the Right-Hand Lane:

I regret that you felt it necessary to make an Unpleasant Face at me when I did not make way for you, causing you to wait until I passed before you could cut over from the right lane through the left lane in order to enter the left turn lane.

I understand that sometimes, whilst driving, your unfamiliarity with the Local Roadways may put you in uncomfortable positions in which you must rely on a degree of extra consideration and courtesy from your fellow drivers. Finding yourself in the far right lane when you want to make a left-hand turn is certainly one such uncomfortable position. Such things happen to all of us...especially if we tend to woolgather while we drive.

Please understand that I would have been all too happy to let you cut in front of me so as to make your hastily considered left-hand turn. We were all driving slowly, being in a school zone, and there was plenty of room in front of me. I would gladly have slowed down to let you in.

However, since you did not bother to engage your vehicle’s electrically-operated Turn Signal, I had no Earthly Clue as to what your possible intentions were. What am I, the Amazing fucking Kreskin? I can read your mind? No, I cannot.

Perhaps your Turn Signal was malfunctioning. In such a case, the normal procedure is to open one’s window and display a Manual Turn-Signal. For a left-hand turn, this consists simply of extending one’s left hand straight out the window. A Pointy-Finger may be used for extra emphasis in cases of desperation.

However, you did not do this. You gave me the Stink-Eye, squeezed in behind me, and then mouthed some undoubtedly Rude Remarks.

Alas, from such sad roots is Road Rage born. And all so, so unnecessary.

I regret any possible unpleasantness arising from our encounter this afternoon.

Next time use your signal, ya dickwad. Happy fucking motoring.

Sincerely yours,
Mr. Debonair

A GOOD SIGN

When I walk into a fine Dining Establishment, my appetite is often whetted by the overall décor of the restaurant. It’s those little touches that tell me I’m about to enjoy an excellent meal.

The tables are bedecked with clean tablecloths. The place settings sparkle, silver gleaming and napery crisply folded.

There may be various signs on the wall attesting to the quality of the food. Perhaps a citation from the Châine des Rotisseurs; perhaps a plaque from a major ratings organization. Mobil Five-Diamond Award? You just know the meal will be good. Or at least, it will drain enough simoleons from your pocket so that you will convince yourself that it was.

And if, as at our family dinner last Saturday night, the walls are adorned with Tasteful Artwork, why, that just helps all the more to get the Digestive Juices flowing...

Mr. Debonair will tell you that a proper Eating Establishment offers enemas in both white and black rubber bags, so that one need not worry about getting unsightly smudges upon one’s clothing...

CONSERVATION

Dear Mr. Debonair,

I read recently that Sheryl Crow (one of my fave musicians!) is touring America with environmental activist Laurie David in order to promote conservation and environmental responsibility. Don’t you think that there is a place for saving the Earth in the world of etiquette?

Sincerely,
Janet Planet

Dear Miss Planet,

I most certainly agree that Conservation and Environmental Sensitivity are issues that must be addressed by all of us...even when we are being polite. Sheryl Crow and Laurie David, in fact, in conducting their Short Bus-Tour of the Continental United States to alert the populace to the dangers of Global Warming, are setting a rather high standard for all of us to emulate.

They are traveling in a biodiesel-fueled Omnibus. Not only does this conserve valuable fossil fuel, but it also leaves behind it a vapor cloud redolent of French Fries. Mmmmm...fries! How gracious of them to use their not-insignificant Carbon Footprint to stimulate the appetities of random Passers-By.

Miss Crow is recommending that conservation be practiced in even the most intimate of venues. Allow me to thus quote from her wisdom-filled pronunciamento:

I have spent the better part of this tour trying to come up with easy ways for us all to become a part of the solution to global warming. Although my ideas are in the earliest stages of development, they are, in my mind, worth investigating. One of my favorites is in the area of forest conservation which we heavily rely on for oxygen. I propose a limitation be put on how many squares of toilet paper can be used in any one sitting. Now, I don’t want to rob any law-abiding American of his or her God-given rights, but I think we are an industrious enough people that we can make it work with only one square per restroom visit, except, of course, on those pesky occasions where 2 to 3 could be required.

[Emphasis mine.]

I must admit that the casual reader will greet this statement with skepticism, nay, even disbelief. But I believe Miss Crow is on to something. Please let Mr. Debonair assure you that a single square is sufficient unto almost all Abstergent Necessities, as explained in this post. [Simply substitute a lone square of Tee-Pee for the Cocktail Napkin, and you are All Set.] No matter what your diet, no matter the consistency of your Personal By-Product Materials (ahem), you need no longer contribute to the gradual deforestation of the planet, with the inevitable consequence of a long-term increase in atmospheric carbon dioxide levels and its resultant unfortunate impact on Climate Change, by using excessive quantities of Bun-Wad.

In Singapore, it is a misdemeanor to use a public Rest-Room Facility without flushing afterward, a regulation that poses some interesting enforcement challenges. I therefore leave it as an exercise for the imaginations of my Esteemed Readers to concoct a method of enforcing the putative Sheryl Crow Bun-Wad Act.

Of course, there is a smally, cynical part of Mr. Debonair that wonders whether doing this whole Save The Planet tour by e-mail and internet forum might have resulted in a much smaller Carbon Footprint than driving a bus cross-country...but that wouldn’t have been as much fun, now, would it?

[Tip o’ th’ Elisson fedora to Erica for alerting me to Miss Crow’s Stop Global Warming College Tour.]

ASK MR. DEBONAIR...

...and he will tell you:

“When dining, the salad should go in your face, not on it.”



I’m so glad SWMBO has a Camera-Phone...

A DEBONAIR QUERY

Let’s turn the tables, shall we?

Instead of you asking Mr. Debonair your angst- and despair-filled questions, why don’t we have Mr. Debonair ask a question of his Esteemed Readers on the eve of this Most Significant Day?

What will you be giving your lover for Valentine’s Day?

Something special, perhaps?

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair,

What is the proper course of action when one has sneezed, causing the expulsion of a great big Wad o’ Boogage?

Sincerely,
A Proper Canajan Lady

Dear Lady,

The issue of how to deal with Nasal Mucus has, alas, been with us humans since before the Dawn of Time. And, sadly, many of our fellow humans continue to treat the matter in much the same way our Troglodytic Ancestors must have done.

The proper course of action is, when a sneeze is coming on, to cover one’s mouth and nose with a Pocket Handkerchief, preventing the potential escape of Unpleasant Substances. If one does not carry a Pocket Handkerchief - an unfortunate possibility in these Culturally Degenerate Times - then one may use a Facial Tissue.

Under no circumstances may one use a Restaurant Napkin. Mr. Debonair, in fact, has observed, on rare occasions, people indulging in the evil practice of blowing their noses in restaurant napkins. This is unspeakable. (Were I a waiter in a restaurant and I saw someone doing this, why, I would feel absolutely no compunction about adulterating that patron’s food with Vile Materials, the identity of which is best left unsaid in a Family-Friendly Weblog.)

When caught unawares by the Sneezing Impulse, it is acceptable practice to direct the sneeze into the crook of one’s arm rather than covering the mouth and nose with one’s bare hand. This is, in fact, preferable from a disease transmission standpoint.

If nasal mucus is expelled in the course of sneezing, it is completely unacceptable to (1) consume the mucus, or (2) to attempt to manually reinsert it in the nares. The first alternative is revolting; the second is not only revolting, but also completely ridiculous.

If one is off by oneself and feels the need to clear the nostrils, the ancient practice of using the “Farmer’s Handkerchief” (AKA the “Bowery Blow”) - closing one nostril with a finger while forcibly expelling air (and other materials) from the other nostril directly onto the ground - may be tempting. Resist the impulse to revert to behavior more suited to the cave-dwellers of prehistory! Are we not men?

MR. DEBONAIR’S PARTY TIPS

Offering advice on how to enjoy a successful New Year’s Eve party right now smacks of closing the barn door after the horse has run off…but Mr. Debonair knows that good parties take place all year long.

Tip One:

Invite convivial, intelligent, cultured people.


A typical crowd of convivial, cultured party-goers.
SWMBO, Elder Daughter, Laura Belle, Don, Mickey, the Mistress of Sarcasm, JoAnn, Gary, Elisson.

If your guests behave as though they were raised by wolves, your house will be trashed, your reputation damaged, and you may very possibly find a turd in your punchbowl. Avoid this tragic outcome by selecting your guests carefully. Good partygoers can get their drink on without getting overly bibulous and carry on conversations even with people they do not know well. They are fun to be around at all times. If you don’t have friends like this, find some immediately.

Tip Two:

Be sure you have adequate supplies of Food and Drink. Especially Drink, for if you have enough to drink, you won’t give a shit about the food.


Serve plenty of Mango-Tinis.
Cran-apple juice, squeeze of lemon, and a hearty dose of Finlandia Mango Vodka, shaken and strained into a Martini glass. Garnish with lemon slice.

It is especially helpful if your beverage of choice matches your clothing. Not only does it look suave, it minimizes the damage when you dump your Mango-Tini all over yourself.


Match your drink color to your clothes.
When you’re half in the bag, you’ll make less of a mess!

Tip Three:

Make sure everyone gets home safely. Call a cab, or be prepared to put people up if necessary.

Mr. Debonair and his family wish you the happiest of New Years...and the most enjoyable parties in 2007!

ASK MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Mr. Debonair,

I hate to travel by air. I don’t mind the long delays, the security procedures, the uncomfortable seating, and the tasteless airline snacks, but I have a terrible problem with flatulence. Being cooped up in an airplane only makes it worse, and it’s so embarrassing when I inadvertently let pass a little toot! Do you have any suggestions?

Hates Flying

Dear Hates,

Ahh, the dreaded Airborne Attack of the Vapors.

Indeed, there are many among us who have an especial problem with flatulence at 35,000 feet. Whether or not you dined on garlic sausage, five-alarm chili, Brussels sprouts, and hard-boiled eggs prior to your embarkation on that Boeing 737-300, it matters not. What does matter is that you are strapped in to that center seat next to a screaming baby, the seat belt light is on due to that “light chop” that had one of the flight attendants pinned to the ceiling five minutes ago, and the low air pressure makes the escape of Toxic Vapors almost inevitable.

For your peace of mind, recognize that we are all human, and we all suffer from the same problem.

If you find that you must pass gas while in flight, do what Mr. Debonair does. Open your air vent full blast; this will not only dilute the Vile Aroma and distribute it rapidly throughout the cabin, but the noise it generates may help cover up any noise you may generate while in flatulentia delicto.

Try to “slice the Swiss” quietly. Cough, if necessary, to cover up any noise - or rend one of your garments. Explain that you are enroute to a funeral and that tearing your shirt-tail is a traditional expression of grief.

Should you succeed in “hacking the Havarti” noiselessly, there is still the matter of aroma. Call it Murphy’s Law of Airline Flatulence, but it seems that most people save their most toxic, stench-filled emissions for the airplane. Should you detect an unmistakably fecal odor, simply wrinkle your nose in disgust - even if you are the responsible party and you are experiencing what the Germans call Fertzelstolzfreude - the strange, yet unmistakable, mingling of pride and pleasure upon smelling our own farts. People will assume someone else did it, particularly if you are a middle-aged woman.

Whatever you do, learn well the bitter lesson of Richard Milhous Nixon: Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to cover up a Farctic Blast with another aroma. Perfume is ineffective and obvious. And a woman discovered this week, to her intense dismay, that lighting matches - in effect, covering up one sulfurous exhalation with another - is not an alternative to be recommended whilst in flight.

Consider this tragic case, a 21st Century Cautionary Tale. Here is a woman enroute from Washington, D.C. to Dallas, who, in attempting to cover up her (presumably) prodigious and pungent gaseous output by lighting matches, ran afoul (heh) of the regulations that prohibit open flames aboard aircraft.

Whatever was she thinking? Rather than the momentary embarrassment of suffering other passengers’ withering stares (assuming the above Diversionary Tactics were unsuccessful or, indeed, not attempted), imagine the embarrassment attendant upon having the flight aborted and all passengers and luggage removed, causing the flight to incur at three hour delay; and being permanently banned from American Airlines!

This woman, apparently bereft of Critical Thinking Skills, would have been better off taking a five-pound shit in her knickers - never mind suffering the minor embarrassment of Being Caught Farting in Public.

The moral? Lighten up, relax (albeit not your Sphincter Muscle) - and leave those matches at home!

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM MR. DEBONAIR

“Picking your nose with a tissue is like making love while wearing a condom.”

IN WHICH ELISSON STEPS ON HIS DICK

Sometimes, the best of intentions are undone by a Brain-Fart.

After dinner with our Minyan Crowd, She Who Must Be Obeyed and I walked over to the adjacent Kroger, there to purchase some cat litter. I went inside to hunt down the Dry Goods, as it were, while SWMBO stayed outside to talk on her cell phone, reception inside the store being hit or miss.

When I came out, SWMBO was nowhere in sight. As it turns out, she had gone into the store looking for me.

While I waited for her to figure out that I was no longer in the store, a gentleman pulled up in front of me in the parking lot, asking directions to a nearby subdivision. Since it is the neighborhood wherein is located our shul, it was an easy matter to give him directions.

“Just take a left coming out of the shopping center. Go down about two miles - it’s the next left after Home Depot.”

Ahh, that’s me. Helpful Mr. Debonair. I felt good about myself, helping my Fellow Man in some small way. Paying it forward. Tikkun Olam - repairing the world, one good deed at a time.

It was only as SWMBO and I were pulling out of the parking lot that I realized to my horror that I had forgotten that we were at the Kroger on Johnson Ferry Road just south of Shallowford. The directions I had given this nice gentleman unfortunate clod were based on the assumption that we were at the Kroger on Roswell Road at Coleman Road.

B-L-A-A-A-A-A-T!

That, friends, is the sound of a Brain-Fart. Fear it.

I had just sent this poor schmuck on a merry ride down Johnson Ferry Road, where nary a Home Depot is to be found. Perhaps he would realize his mistake before he crossed the Chattahoochee River into Fulton County...and perhaps not. Either way, he would be cursing “that stupid sonofabitch who gave me these Shit Directions,” and the shame of it is, he’d be right.

Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I need to wash the egg off my face.

Mr. Smart-Brains, dat’s me!

INDEPENDENCE DAY WITH MR. DEBONAIR

“Life is sweet,” I thought to myself, as I sat in my beach chair at the Sandestin resort.

I cradled an icy cup of Myers Jamaican Rum in my hand. In my other hand was a Cuban Montecristo Number 2 torpedo from which lazy curls of smoke drifted.

The sun was bright and hot, but the shade under my umbrella was cool and restful. The warm, inviting Gulf waters sparkled.

A parade of scantily-clad women trudged along the white sands. Some, it must be said, were tan, fit, and attractive. Others were of the sort that should receive a Restraining Order upon arrival at the beach, limiting the amount of skin they are allowed to display. Gaaah.

On one side of me was She Who Must Be Obeyed. Independence Day is always a bittersweet day for her, it being the anniversary of the day she lost her younger sister. It was 31 years ago, and had it happened on almost any other date, the remembered pain would likely not be as sharp. But SWMBO is tough, and she deals with it as best she can, and I along with her.

On the other side was my friend Virginia Steve, my college roommate. He and his wife Sue had joined us in Destin this year, a first. It is he that provided the cigars, smuggled in from his last visit to Israel a few weeks ago.

As we relaxed and puffed away on our stogies, a young man came up to us. “Would you mind moving so that the smoke doesn’t drift toward us?”

Had he couched his request in a demanding, obnoxious manner, I would have told him to go fuck himself. But no: he was unfailingly polite. In fact, when I offered to put my cigar out, he said, “No! I wouldn’t hear of it. That’s a Montecristo, isn’t it?” So the guy knew his ’gars, for sure, and no doubt was making the request on behalf of his Missus. Thus it was that Virginia Steve and I roused ourselves and found ourselves new chairs downwind.

V.S. was appalled. “You were way too nice,” quoth he. And since he is an Attorney-At-Law, I can see why he might cleave to that opinion.

But I said, “Look: the guy asked politely. I’m not one to return civility with incivility. That, my friend, would be nekulturny.”

A few minutes later, the Roving Booze-Babe showed up. She asked whether we cared for a drink…and told us that “the couple over there” – indicating the young man and his wife – “wanted to buy you a drink.” Sure enough, our Reasonable Behavior was worth a couple of Adult Beverages. And there is a lesson to be taken from this, on the Birthday of Our Country.

Is it “Be nice to people and they will buy you drinks”? Well, maybe, but that is a lesson that any Random Whore can teach you. No: it is nothing less than the Golden Rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” Along with, “Always be very nice to people who are in a position to expectorate in your food whilst you are not looking,” it is a rule that any aspiring Mr. or Ms. Debonair would do well to learn.