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A few words from S.J. Perelman to lighten your day

Marchbanks

Hat and Beard member
On preparing to meet the Prince Regent of Johore:

‘Despite the fact that I had donned two left shoes and an ambassadorial sash that clashed slightly with my khaki shorts, I bore myself with icy sang-froid and a determination not to let myself be overawed.’
 
My favourite heroic quote comes from Ernest Shackleton when they were in Antarctica, pinned down by the winter, and the ship had been destroyed by the pack ice. "Today's soup was limpet and seaweed, and very good. A few days ago I had noticed that the men were starting to look a bit peaky so I ordered that each man receive a four inch strip of seal blubber in his daily ration, to be chewed with his 11 o 'clock drink. I was pleased to note that they were now looking considerably better nourished."
 
'A farm is an irregular patch of nettles bounded by short-term notes, containing a fool and his wife who didn’t know enough to stay in the city.'
 
On the tourist attractions of Penang:

‘[The Ayer Itam temple] is possibly the largest, and unquestionably the dullest, Buddhist temple in Malaya, and no wastebasket is complete without a snapshot of this historic shrine. The botanical gardens boast many varieties of cactus not found anywhere, not even in the botanical gardens. I waited almost three minutes for them to show up, but never caught so much as a glimpse of anything resembling a cactus.’
 
On himself (in the guise of critic Sidney Namlerep):

‘Before they made Perelman they broke the mould.’
 
On renting out his apartment:

We never actually met the person who rented the flat after our departure, but his manners were described as exquisite and his faro bank, until the law knocked it over, was said to be unrivaled in downtown Manhattan. I still wear on my watch-chain a .38 slug which creased the mantelpiece and one of his patrons, though not in the order stated.
 
On the medical profession:

Dr. Fitch: Now, I want you to get hold of a tonic. I forget the name of it, but it’s about thirty dollars a bottle. The clerk’ll know.
Freedley: Will I feel better after I take it?
Dr. Fitch (coldly): I’m a physician, Freedley, not an astrologer. If you want a horoscope, there’s a gypsy tearoom over on Lexington Avenue.
 
I intend to keep this up until Friday 13th - it is only through consumption of Perelman and red wine that I am keeping my mind off the horror that awaits us when we wake up on that day. After that, we will all have to fend for ourselves (although I have bought up extra stocks of both to soften the blow.)

On anticipating a possible burglary:

With a view toward sharpening my sensibilities to razor edge, I decided to toss off two fingers of brandy neat. A search of the kitchen cupboards failed to elicit any such restorative; I did, however, turn up a can of warm tomato juice whose top I finally breached with an apple corer. Five or six gauze pads soon dried the trifling gash in my wrist, and, stripping down to my shorts (for I was not minded to carry excess poundage if an emergency arose), I opened my Gibbon to the campaigns of Diocletian.
 
:) yes. Fine moustaches too, which is important in a surreal novelist I think, al la DALI
The man was a genius, IMO - not a term I use too often. You laugh out loud one minute and then find yourself reaching for your dictionary to look up ‘parasang’ or (my favourite today) ‘rodomontade’ next. I find myself reading the same paragraph over and over just revelling in the mixture of craziness and obscure (to me) vocabulary and literary references. It’s like watching a catherine wheel whizzing round spitting sparks in all directions. No surprise that dear old Clive James cited him as a huge influence. You can see Perelman all over Clive’s humorous works. And it’s pretty safe to say Woody Allen would have been rather different had Perelman not existed.
 
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And, I never heard of him until you posted. My loons were simpler and closer to home...Spike Milligan, Bonzo Dog, Dali etc. Glad to read him.
 
On a plumbing emergency during a dinner party:

I was interrupted by a bubbling effect, as of water seeping through a dining-room floor, and looked down to find an inch of water lapping at my oxfords. Before I could explain that we had chosen a low, marshy situation to remind us of the English lake country, my wife rose through a jet of live steam like the devil in Faust and placed a monkey wrench beside my plate. I pretended it was part of the meal, a pantomime which threw my guests into gales of silence, and slunk off into the cellar.

As one who flunked trigonometry four times, it took me only a moment to detect the source of the trouble. That little square business on the electric pump - I forget just what they call it - had worked off. This in turn disengaged the stopcock or the bushing (it was a bit dark to tell which) in such a way that the hot water was feeding into the coal bin instead of the storage tank, or flange.
 
On fixing the above problem:

By exerting a slight leverage, I succeeded in prying off the gasket, or outer jacket of the pump, exactly as you would a baked potato. (I describe this simply so that even the layman can understand.) This gave me room to poke around the innards with a sharp stick. I cleaned the pump thoroughly, laid all the different wheels and cams on a board where the plumber could find them and, as a final precaution, opened the windows to allow the water to drain off down the slope.

On the way upstairs, I found my passage blocked by a jug of peach brandy, and after some difficulty managed to squeeze past it. Either it was stuffy in the basement or I had given too freely of my strength, for when I rejoined the party, I felt dizzy.
 
OK, last one. I was thinking of ending with a couple of quotes from Nasty Uncle Sidney’s latter days giving his views on punk music and rock fans, but that seems churlish as even great men (he was one) have their flaws (he had quite a few.) So...

On spending the night alone and hearing strange noises from the kitchen:

My dogs, quick to guard their master, formed into a hollow square and withdrew under the couch. I dried my palms, which seemed to have accumulated a slight film of oil, and picked up the fire tongs. “Who’s there?” I inquired in a crisp falsetto. (After all, I thought, why waste a trip to the kitchen if nobody was there?) There was no answer; whoever it was didn’t even have the common decency to reply. Angered, I strode toward the kitchen, whistling to warn of my approach, and flung open the door. Everything was in apple-pie order, including the apple pie, except that the rocking chair was bobbing slowly back and forth.

“That’s odd - very odd,” I murmured, re-entering the living room and tripping over a chair. “Probably caused by a draft from an open window or something.”

“Or something,” agreed one of the dogs from under the couch.
 
Wonderful use of the language - brings one of Richard E Grant's characters to mind - maybe Simon from Posh Nosh.
My vocabulary has certainly increased while I’ve been laughing. I managed to fit ‘bombinate’ into a conversation recently, and next I’m going to try ‘steatopygous.’ Might have to be a bit careful with that one.

Edit: I’ve hidden it in a post here. Let’s see if anyone notices (or indeed cares.)
 


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