Lady Chafferly

The nerve of some people.
   In getting into my cups this monday last, I was joined by a few so-called friends. Words were exchanged in the light and congenial publically housed banter characteristic of such ale saroons, and eventually, in a manner characteristic of such places, lines were crossed ere they were even scratched in the sand. Some lines should go without drawing.
   She called me a Chigger.
   One may imagine how this stroked me; I immediately disclaimed my offense at that, that my heritage is Chafrican American, and I was rather chafed by the of-color slur. And the pot calling the kettle home for tea! She's one to talk, the cross-eyed Guinnese trollop-cream tart bastard of an itinerant Quebec harelop sired of his uncle and aunt with a pathologically parochial highland McDago. She "passes gas," not farts, and yet can pass such judg(e)ment against my people and me and expect it to pass our standards of propriety?
   For shame and forsythia tea to soothe my abraised pride.
   This rubs my delicate sensibilities, and not in the right way.