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The Porcupine's Quill: A Satire Column
by Arshad M. Khan
by Arshad M. Khan
Please scroll down for
the satire column
Porcupine's Quill
the satire column
Porcupine's Quill
May 1, 2011
LETTER FROM A WESTMINSTER ABBEY DORMOUSE
Dear Grand Ollama:
As best I can remember, this is what happened ...
Woken from a deep slumber by blaring - more like
screeching - trumpets, I poked my nose outside my
comfortable cubbyhole ... I had to rub my eyes with
my forepaws but the images remained. My quiet,
gray building with columns reaching up to the sky
was swarming with people in colorful costumes, in a rainbow of colors.
Was it Sunday when they regularly wake me up with a peal of bells? No.
Anyway the Sunday folk are never so gaudily dressed. Gaudi would be
proud of them: plumes, hats, colorful regalia, swords, sticks ... God knows
what else! I thought I had died and gone backwards in time -- a Rip van
Winkle in reverse, a British Connecticut Yankee! Yes, I am proud to be
British. My ancestors were here before the Romans. Oh, those Romans --
dreadful people. They used to eat us, you know, considered us a delicacy, a
tasty tidbit; turns my stomach to think about it.
Then all hell breaks loose: trumpets, orchestra, organ, what a racket. This
woman in a hugely long skirt is walking up. The skirt's so long, someone is
holding it up behind her. Are humans nuts? I think it's a long time since
they were chased by a tiger. Imagine me wearing something like that! What
chance would I have against Tom the Nasty, who comes poking around here
all the time. I ask you!
It is a long skirt and I am sorely tempted. Should I get under and start
climbing a leg? Imagine the commotion. Serve these pompous humans
right for disturbing my peace. Better not though, those swords scare me.
Plus, if I get away, they'll get those terrifying exterminators with their terrible
poisons, even though it's against the Geneva Convention. They don't care.
Well, anyway... they then got to mumbling and singing, and, oh I forgot, the
red man put a ring on the skirty girl's finger... with difficulty! Then more
singing and orchestra, and, oh, those terrible trumpets -- I'll be deaf before
this is over. Then they all walk out: first, redman and skirty with the mumbo
jumbo crowd who live here, then everyone else eventually.
Peace, at last. I can go back to sleep. I don't know why you want to know all
this, Grand Ollama, you didn't miss much. Sorry you didn't get an invite but
neither did that dreadful French poodle, Sour-cozy - he would really have
made my life a hassle. Take care! May the grass always be green under
your nose.
LETTER FROM A WESTMINSTER ABBEY DORMOUSE
Dear Grand Ollama:
As best I can remember, this is what happened ...
Woken from a deep slumber by blaring - more like
screeching - trumpets, I poked my nose outside my
comfortable cubbyhole ... I had to rub my eyes with
my forepaws but the images remained. My quiet,
gray building with columns reaching up to the sky
was swarming with people in colorful costumes, in a rainbow of colors.
Was it Sunday when they regularly wake me up with a peal of bells? No.
Anyway the Sunday folk are never so gaudily dressed. Gaudi would be
proud of them: plumes, hats, colorful regalia, swords, sticks ... God knows
what else! I thought I had died and gone backwards in time -- a Rip van
Winkle in reverse, a British Connecticut Yankee! Yes, I am proud to be
British. My ancestors were here before the Romans. Oh, those Romans --
dreadful people. They used to eat us, you know, considered us a delicacy, a
tasty tidbit; turns my stomach to think about it.
Then all hell breaks loose: trumpets, orchestra, organ, what a racket. This
woman in a hugely long skirt is walking up. The skirt's so long, someone is
holding it up behind her. Are humans nuts? I think it's a long time since
they were chased by a tiger. Imagine me wearing something like that! What
chance would I have against Tom the Nasty, who comes poking around here
all the time. I ask you!
It is a long skirt and I am sorely tempted. Should I get under and start
climbing a leg? Imagine the commotion. Serve these pompous humans
right for disturbing my peace. Better not though, those swords scare me.
Plus, if I get away, they'll get those terrifying exterminators with their terrible
poisons, even though it's against the Geneva Convention. They don't care.
Well, anyway... they then got to mumbling and singing, and, oh I forgot, the
red man put a ring on the skirty girl's finger... with difficulty! Then more
singing and orchestra, and, oh, those terrible trumpets -- I'll be deaf before
this is over. Then they all walk out: first, redman and skirty with the mumbo
jumbo crowd who live here, then everyone else eventually.
Peace, at last. I can go back to sleep. I don't know why you want to know all
this, Grand Ollama, you didn't miss much. Sorry you didn't get an invite but
neither did that dreadful French poodle, Sour-cozy - he would really have
made my life a hassle. Take care! May the grass always be green under
your nose.
