Downtrodden Abbey: The Interminable Saga of an Insufferable Family Read Online Free PDF Page B

offense. Excessive whining is considered a misdemeanour. Shrill catcalls are allowed at cockfights, but—interestingly—not at cat shows. Passing gas in church is thought to be rude and frowned upon, whilst passing the hat is always permissible.

    Parlourmaids often shirked their duties by throttling one another in the halls.
    Walking with the hands in the pockets is considered to be in poor taste, especially if the pockets in question do not belong to the owner of the hands.
    Servants
    Parlourmaids and manservants should never be thanked or complimented, as such comments invariably encourage complacency. The following terms should be used when turning a critical eye: boob, stooge, idiot, cretin, sapsucker, moron, clown, worm, weasel, dummy, and arse-hole.

 
    III
    An Unfortunate Leak
     
    Hunting squirrels is considerably more challenging than fox hunting or shooting at pheasants and grouses. It is widely held that anyone can bag a deer or a duck—but only a true man can nail a cute rodent with a bushy tail.
    A proper squirrel hunt has been organised on the grounds of Downtrodden Abbey, with a guest list that includes Estelle—yes, it is a man’s name, believe it or not—Napster, who has brought along a dear friend.
    He is a dashing Arab named Camel (clearly his parents had a wicked sense of humour). Tomaine is assigned to be his footmasseur—a task he is only too pleased to undertake after getting a gander at the handsome Middle Easterner. In this rare instance, however, Tomaine does his job a bit too well, incurring the wrath of Camel, who becomes spitting mad.
    Just before breakfast, Tomaine confides to O’Grotten the details of his failed tryst with Camel—unfiltered, as usual. O’Grotten’s beady eyes nearly jump out of her sweat-soaked head.
    “So let me get this straight,” she says. “You attempted to hump Camel?”
    “Exactly,” Tomaine admits. “And within seconds, Camel was smoking. But it looks as though I am the one who got burned.”
    The plethora of camel-related wordplay exhausts O’Grotten, who needs to go and supervise the serving of breakfast.
    The morning meal at Downtrodden Abbey is indeed a glorious affair. At seven o’clock sharp pots of India tea are served, along with a choice of pheasant, grouse, partridge, or ptarmigan. Anyone who can tell the difference between these inedible fowl is given an extra cup of tea. This is followed by biscuits and tea, tea and biscuits, and then another round of tea. The meal is capped off with tea all around, as well as biscuits.
    Marry sits between Camel and Atchew, who is again flummoxed by the array of silverware before him. But tonight it is the handsome Arab who has her full attention.
    “How do you like your sausage?” she asks him, perhaps a bit too loudly.
    “You should try it some time,” he replies. “And I am foreign, by the way—not deaf.”
    “Marry, would you use this spoon or that one to penetrate this melon?” asks Atchew.
    How disgusting, she thinks. Using double entendre—what an amateur seduction tactic. She directs her focus back to Camel.
    “I’d love to sample your sausage,” Marry purrs. “Maybe in my boudoir, later tonight.”
    “Are you saying what I think you are?” Camel asks. “Eating in one’s bedroom is not frowned upon at Downtrodden? And breakfast fare—in the evening?”
    He’s not very bright, Marry thinks, but I would definitely give this Camel a ride .
    That night, the Arab is anything but deserted, as he makes his way into Marry’s bedroom.
    “Why, Camel,” Marry exclaims. “Don’t tell me you’ve come here for a bit of the old slap-and-tickle?”
    “What?” he asks.
    “The old slap-and-tickle? Shagging. Making whoopee. Rolling in the hay. The horizontal bop. The monster with two backs. El Schtuppo. Hide the salami. The Venus Fly Trap. Intercourse. Bumping uglies. Doing the Dirty. Sticking it in. The Hot Beef Injection. Banging. Laying pipe. Cattle prodding the oyster ditch. Marinating