Fenwyck, break out the port and cigars, there!
No, you imbecile! The good cigars. The ones made of Cuban seed grown in the fields of majestic Bongolesia. Rolled on the soft thighs of both of the maidens in that benighted nation.
Why? Damn you, Fenwyck! I've just made my 100th entry in the journal, that's why!
Gentlemen, I apologize for Fenwyck's poor manner. Ever so hard to find a good dogrobber these days, don't you find? I have to muddle along with him.