Folklore is filled with well-loved protagonists, from Anansi the Spider to Brer Rabbit. The most sophisticated among us follow the adventures of one Lionel Pettibanks Witherbottom.

The Origins of the Monocle

Lionel Pettibanks Witherbottom found himself at another cotillion, socializing with a slew of pretentious young drips. “Pish posh,” he heard one of his peers say. “How droll.”

Lionel rolled his eyes. These fuckers were always saying “droll.”

“This dance is busted,” Lionel muttered to himself. It was too hot in the banquet hall to be wearing tails, the ladies were sevens at best, and whatever he was drinking was not of a high enough proof to compensate for these egregious shortcomings.

A bead of sweat escaped from underneath Lionel’s top hat. It migrated down his forehead to the front of his glasses, shmearing the left lens. This was the last straw. He didn’t even need glasses! But spectacles were à la mode and he was thus obliged to wear them to these so-called highbrow events.

“Whatever,” he sneered, removing his glasses and snap- ping them in half. He put one of the lenses in front of his eyes. “Look guys, so droll, amirite?”

The other young men glanced at him quizzically. “Lionel, what is this hogwash?” asked Francis Twillingbanks, a particularly nebbishy, irksome fellow.

“She digs it,” said Lionel, giving a passing debutante a head nod and a wink. She blushed.

The Idea for Yachts

The young gentlemen sat in the parlor with their cigars, comparing the merits of bourbon and scotch.

“The smoky blend of scotch possesses profound olfactory appeal,” explained Percy Peddlebright.

“But one cannot overlook the satisfactory malty undertones found in bourbon,” countered Regis Worthingcroft III.

“You know what would be awesome,” interrupted Lionel. “If we all lived on a boat.”

“You mean like…a houseboat?” offered Percy. “I think Crazy Hawkins Magee lives by the docks.”

“I actually heard he inhabits the abandoned lighthouse over by the lagoon,” corrected Francis Twillingbanks.

“No, guys,” said Lionel with a scoff. “Like, if we could each have a boat in addition to our mansions. A super-fly floating crib, with a pool and a servant staff and a pimped-out speaker system so we could all rage.”

A silence descended on the company.

“Rage?” repeated Regis with a blank stare.

“Lionel, your cigar smells awfully funny,” commented Francis. “And your eyes are all red and bleary. Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Lionel from the middle of a cloud of smoke.

The Creation of “Whom”

At Percy Peddlebright’s Boxing Day celebration, Lionel Pettibanks Witherbottom had consumed a tad too much of both bourbon and scotch and was currently crossing over from pleasantly to belligerently drunk.

“I love Boxing Day,” chimed Percy. “It is so rewarding to give the underlings our used boxes from our Christmas packages.” He gestured to the stack of discarded cardboard containers beside him.

“Oh, is that what we do on Boxing Day?” inquired Regis Worthingcroft III. “I was never quite sure.”

Percy looked down at his oxford loafers. “It is a tad unclear,” he admitted. “Does anyone know what we actually celebrate today?” Everyone looked away bashfully.

“I don’t give anybody gifts, any day,” slurred Lionel. “Not to him. Not to you,” he said, gesticulating wildly at the others and spilling some of his drink in the process. “I don’t care who, hmm? I don’t care whoooommm. Whom.” Lionel giggled to himself and hiccupped.

“Whom,” repeated Francis Twillingbanks thoughtfully. “That has a nice ring to it.”

“IT’S MINE! I THOUGHT OF IT FIRST!” shouted Lionel. He threw the remaining contents of his glass in Francis’ well-meaning face and proceeded to vomit in the pile of boxes.

— A. Beizer