I submit for your consideration today a subject most vexing: the apparent inability of humanity to remember which fork to use for salad. This subject is near and dear to my heart, given that I spent many years as a traveler in the very best circles, among the rich and famous, and none of them could figure out how to behave properly whilst at dinner, either. It gave me fits, I tell you, fits. Many were the evenings I clutched my pearls in dismay at the lack of sophistication in my fellow diners.
It is the small fork, gentle readers, the SMALL fork. Need I Google it for you? Here. As a skull belonging to a vole who has been dead for at least a decade and a half, possibly longer, I've seen my fair share of manners failings. Admittedly, it was a little more difficult to judge my compatriots from my current residence inside a film canister, but I managed all the same. I finally could not take the insanity any longer, and I had to express my aggravation at this intolerable state of affairs.
Although, to be sure, I also cannot stand misheard song lyrics. A pox on those who repeat them.
Wishing you and yours a most excellent autumnal season,
A Dead Vole Skull
It has a distinct temperament, and has expressed dissatisfaction with several of my life choices over the years. It is also very particular about certain things and has a tendency to write overwrought diatribes on such topics as window treatments and the proper application of caulk.
The views expressed in this essay represent only those of the dead vole skull, and not my own. I cannot be held responsible for any offense it may have caused.
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