I Smell a Rat

A Good Christian writes:

Dear G&G,
I found “Ratatouille” to be extremely offensive. There were a few scenes in which the rat pranced around the kitchen wearing no undergarments. In fact, I find a lot of things offensive. What should I do about this?
yours,
A Good Xtian

Dear ‘Good’,

One wonders why a self-professed follower of the Christian faith is writing to an advice column that boldly and without reservations advertises itself to be written by ‘inebriates.’ Or is it true that certain members of your faith pride themselves on unique interpretations not readily supported by fact? Do enlighten me.

I have not seen the film of which you speak; there is no cinema here in Casablanca and even if there were, my duties as Prefect of Police would not allow me to spend time in such idle pursuits. No, in my off-hours I prefer to imbibe heavily, flirt unashamedly with whores and other women of dubious virtue, defy the local authorities, and cheat at roulette in the casino that adjoins the cafe owned by my (male) lover.

Indeed, Madame, were you to stumble upon my lover and myself some dark Moroccan night, we both might be prancing round his kitchen sans undergarments, drinking Veuve Cliquot and kissing each other—with tongue—and behaving in a generally offensive manner.

I would also point out, Madame, that the rat, being in fact an animal, would not have been naturally endowed with undergarments while in its original, pre-Lapsarian state in the Garden of Eden. If you wonder why, I suggest you contact your God. I find a speedy telegram, dispatched at once, usually clears up the matter nicely.

If this is not satisfactory to you, you may wish to round up all the rats in your immediate vicinity and fit them with such undergarments as may seem suitable to you in your current dérangement.

I trust this answers your question.

Blithely,

Louis

Napoleon in Rags

An Unnamed Despot wrote:

You won’t have heard of me, as I deemed it best to keep a low profile while implementing my master plan for world domination. Only a few more days and the dominos shall begin to fall and I shall be proclaimed Supreme Emperor of Earth (or perhaps Lord High Potentate, I haven’t decided yet). However, there is one small dilemma which still plagues me, and only advisors of your sagacity can help me with a small but vital detail of my grand strategy. In return, you may all count on exalted posts in the coming new order.

It is this: even as we speak, my sworn nemesis, a handsome and debonair secret agent with a suitably refined accent, is seducing my mistress to learn the details of my diabolical plan., which I took the precaution of leaving where even she could not miss them. By my calculations, he should be bursting into my secret lair on Skullcrusher Mountain at precisely midnight two nights hence. I owe him a proper reception, so I have ordered my minions to have a gourmet feast laid out in readiness for his arrival, and I have been practicing the proper intonation for greeting him with the words, “Good evening, my English friend,” in front of the mirror.

My question is, I know that Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1870 is his favorite, but I cannot help but think that a Gevrey Chambertin Burgundy would be more suitable for the occasion. I’m sure you can understand that this a time when one wants to do the wrong thing, so I do hope you can help me with this.

Sincerely,

Your future all-powerful despot

My dear Sir,

It has always been my understanding that Skullcrusher Mountain was well-equipped with all the necessities of civilised living, perhaps gathered to your environs by your assistant, Scarface—whom, I also understand, has an appearance which is quite disturbing, albeit he is harmless enough. However, sometimes even the best equipped quarters can experience a paucity of luxury goods, in which case one must make a late, lamented foray to the markets or the souk, there to engage in the tiresome ritual of haggling with tradesmen who wish only to cheat one out of one’s hard-earned money!

In short, Monsieur, taste is everything, and when dining, the taste of one’s frenemies must of course fall sway to what is appropriate and correct. The Rothschild may indeed be his favourite, but custom dictates that a bottle or two of Gevrey Chambertin Burgundy be served on such an occasion. If, weather permitting, the meal were to be served al fresco, then I could condescend to perhaps a Veuve Cliquot, which is so suited to everything, really. When your English guest bursts into your secret lair, please, I beg you—stow the pony/monkey monster carefully out of sight. The English are dreadfully acquisitive creatures; seeing yours, he would immediately want one of his own, and heaven knows, you have probably already used far too many monkeys.

Aimiable,

Louis.

PS: I should like a post in your administration as Prefect of Police, if it please Your Majesty…