Dearest Awesome Advice Central,
I don’t actually have a problem today, but I believe you might.
You see, I happen to know that while you appear to have a lock on the world’s pool boy population, and the martini industry need never fear going out of business while you are supporting it, you are missing one extremely important element from your otherwise exemplary and delightfully idle lives: moi.
Yes, ladies, I am the answer to your prayers.
I’ve read every single one of your columns—yes, every last blasted one, including that bally nincompoop who turned her baby’s teeth into jewellery—and I like the cut of your jib. Or should I say “jibs”?
You see, while I’m no longer in the purest flush of youth, I dare say I’ve made quite a splash among the fillies in my time, and I’m quite certain that I could handle both of you in one go, so to speak. Not that I would ever stoop to brag, but I do know how to please a woman…or, in your case, a matched set.
None of this bellowing, “Brace yourself, darling!” in lieu of foreplay for me.
No, no, no. I’ve read all the relevant books, I’ve asked around, and I believe I’m now well aware of how a lady likes to be treated. Oh blast, excuse me, “ladies.”
If you take my meaning, say no more, say no more.
Now, lest you think I’m an impertinent old sod for addressing you with such familiarity, let me rush to reassure you: I’m not. I am, in fact, deeply in love with you…the collective you, that is. I wouldn’t want to play favourites.
I’ve seen your pictures, and fancy you’re both fine specimens of womanhood who might just be able handle a high-spirited jocko such as myself; and I’m quite prepared to support you in the manner to which you’d like to become accustomed.
Not to brag, but I’m in quite a handy spot, fiscally speaking: dearest Mumsie and Papa popped their collective clogs a few years back, leaving me their Bentley, their country estate, their townhouse, and a tidy sum; and of course there’s my military pension, which as you might imagine is not insubstantial.
Let’s just say I could afford to keep you in gin, vermouth, and pool boys for the rest of your days. Well, perhaps not pool boys. Unless they were strictly the platonic sorts. I’m an open-minded chap, but one must draw the line somewhere.
I’ve never been one to stand on ceremony, so what about it then? Will you consent to be my bride(s)?
I await your assent. Just let me know when you’d like me to move my furnishings out of the gentleman’s club where I currently reside, and I shall be
Ever at your service,
Lt.-General Sir Rodney Waggle-Ramsbotham-Jones III
p.s. You wouldn’t want children, would you? Because I’m really not the fatherly type.
Dear Sir Rodney,
The line forms on the left. Please take a number.
Awesome Advice Central