Monday, December 22, 2008


Last night, the wife and I attended the wedding of a pair of notable socialites. Flowers, dresses and merriment. Agreeable dinner offerings. No big whoop.

Just as our post-prandial reverie was reaching it's zenith, our good cheer absconded by way of a lady whose taste in writing utensils vastly exceeded our own. We'll call her Parpenu...

After swinging by our table for a little ostensible chit-chat, Papenu got to the business at hand. She needed a pen, and did not have one.

To Parpenu's good fortune, my wife happened to have just the thing. She pulled from her purse a white ballpoint pen. Parpenu took the unadorned quill with a look of puzzlement. To admire her contortions, you would have thought my wife had handed her a bag of half-eaten pickle.

"Does it write?" She asked, quizzically.

No, you tap it against the wall three times to summon a !@#$ing scribe... I thought to myself, but had not the courage to speak.

The undercurrent of class distinction was rendered stark. Women of Parpenu's caliber are unaccustomed to the frippery of so-called "disposable" pens. But for her good graces, Parpenu would've rejected the thing on sight.

With a ladylike nod of her head, Parpenu vanished behind the storied marble columns of the Landmark center, away from our table of uninvited hand-srabbles. But the stain of our affront was clear. She came begging a sword, and we furnished a lowly pocket knife, compromising our collective dignity in the process.

Of course, Parpenu never returned our pen. In retrospect, it's probably a good thing we didn't give her a nice one...


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Wow, you take offense easily-- it must be a really pathetic way to live.

3:56 PM  
Blogger Sarah said...

I'm thinking this "anonymous" person must really have no life to make comments about that like yours.

Peter, keep to your own blog. :)

11:41 AM  

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