My Horrible Aunt.

"Well, the problem with you," my horrible aunt explains, levitating a hansom cab with her psionic insanity for fun, once again terrifying the townspeople and causing a fair amount of magick-inflicted suicides. "Is that you haven't any class. The deftly spoon sits left of the frankly spoon, and last we dined I saw them quite unsuitably misplaced at your setting."

"They was placed there by a servant, Mr. Pelston," I explain, rolling my eyes very far back into my head for effect.

My awful aunt groans and, for a dreary dozenth time, exhumes and displays the exsanguinated corpse of Mr. Pelston, all paper skin and leathery shriveled eyeballs.

"This is your excuse? You might as well choose a duck for a champion," she exclaims, tossing aside Mr. Pelston's corpse, and doing things to the innocent driver of the hansom cab to vent her frustration, turning him inside out and writing his intimate dreams upon the shit-smeared cobblestones in blister-ink, things of that nature.

"What-ever," I say, and go on vivisecting my childhood dog.