Goddamn it, nurse! How many times do I have to tell you? Wipe front to back, not back to front! You want me to get an infection? Mindless ox!
But why should I be surprised? This so-called caretaker of mine is part of the younger generation, who've never done an honest lick of work in their entire lives! When they're not upsetting vegetable carts as they race about in their murderous velocipedes, they're adorning their faces with obscene shades of rouge! I blame this sorry state of affairs on the invention of electric refrigeration. It enables the young to consume sugared ices any time of day, spoiling their dinners and encouraging impudence toward their parents and county-appointed wardens!
The other day, whilst being wheeled through the village, I saw a shop offering Victrola talking machines for sale. A gang of rough-looking lads assembled around one of these contraptions, which was emitting a hideous wailing sound. Given permission to speak, my valet Standish told me the wailing was a recording of the voice of Rudy Vallee. Incensed, I dispersed the pimply idlers with a few swift waves of my cane. I demanded to speak to the proprietor, a weak-willed man who claimed that the youths were only enjoying some music before attending a scout meeting.
Rudy Vallee! I should have known. I recalled seeing him in a private screening of "Pep Follies of 1930," strumming his vulgar ukulele and screeching "Good Night Sweetheart." That heavy-jawed, so-called "crooner" is the force behind the decay of American values. His girlish prattlings cause the nation's women to swoon like silly geese when they should be busy churning butter. If that Vallee fellow had a shred of dignity, he'd discard his ukulele and take up the foghorn. Now there's a man's instrument! It keeps ships from dashing on the rocks. Ships that bring such sorely needed items such as hammers, thimbles, and enemas to our great Republic!
Speaking of enemas, I'm in dire need of a good flushing right now. Nurse! Where are you know, you sandbag-breasted layabout? Nurse!