Malcolm was pissed."This jaunty beret is doing NOTHING for me. NOTHING!" he shouted in the mirror. Tearing the jaunty beret off his head, he threw it onto the ground. For good measure, he stomped on it. Twice.
Malcolm's stalwart chum, Banquo, heard shouting from the other room. Banquo entered.
"Dude, what's the matter? And why are you staring into the mirror? All the mirrors in this room are turned to face the wall. Seems like an exercise in futility to me. Also, what the fuck is that t-shirt?"
Malcolm looked down at his new t-shirt, a rocking Ed Hardy number.
"I didn't think my usual England-between-the-wars get-up was working", Malcolm said. "I want to show the ladies that I'm dangerous, that I'm pulling in mad dough from being the son of the king - enough dough to spend $100 on a t-shirt. Women are impressed by that. I read it in Maxim."
Banquo looked pained. "Malcolm, it's a well-known fact that the only people who wear those t-shirts are GRADE-A DOUCHEBAGS. Who told you this was a good idea?"
"The witches", said Malcolm. "They said I could go to their next rave if I cultivated an edgier look. Also, something about when the hurlyburly's done. What's a hurlyburly? "
Banquo spat. And shook his fist in the air.
"Merciful powers!
Restrain in me the cursèd thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose", he said.
"Anyway, I just had a thought", Malcolm said to his friend, "What do you think about the jaunty beret WITH the t-shirt?"
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