I faced the worst of my fears when Sir Pumpkin Longshanks gave me an ultimatum: give up my omnibus of 19th century erotica written by Langford Diapers, (great grandfather of the notorious Nigel Diapers) or move out.
I don’t care if it’s a lesser known fascicle, a revered omnibus, or a piece of notebook paper with a penis drawn on it: if it’s written by Diapers, it’s hogwash–total apocrypha–to me, no matter what his silly acolytes say, rankled by years of their lovers giving them the same ultimatum with absolute ennui: Me or Diapers. You have to choose.
If you’re going give me an ultimatum, then I choose Mr. Diapers. At least he has kindness enough in his heart to gift me an omnibus of love poems. That they are urine-stained beyond recognition is besides the point. You’ve never given me anything.