indeedsir_backup | First ever Jooster ficlet!

Have you ever been rappelling? There's that first jump down, where you go from solid ground to a brief period of falling off a cliff, and even though you're holding onto the rope and you know there's someone down there belaying and your harness is perfectly sound and tight--well, despite all this, you're still a bit worried because you're about to Fall Off A Cliff--you know that feeling? I have that feeling. Nevertheless, I shall stiffen the upper lip and take that jump--figuratively, I mean.

So here's my first attempt at writing à la Wodehouse. Warning: it's quite silly. Eighth grade humor. Also did I mention that it's my first attempt? And unbetaed. I will probably regret posting this, at some point...

TITLE: No. No title. I'm pants at titles.
RATING: PG-13, for suggestive language
DISCLAIMER: Actually, these characters are in the public domain and I can do whatever I want with them. Credit where credit is due: Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, God-creator of the world of Jeeves and Wooster. He made them up; we made them gay. :P

It was all some bally misunderstanding. We Woosters aren’t famed for the grey matter we store up in the old melon, you should know. You’d think Jeeves would have cottoned on to that by now. Actually, I suppose if you’re new to the memoirs of one B. Wooster—self—you might not think that, as you’re busy wondering who this Jeeves is, exactly. Well, he’s my valet, but if I do say so, and I think I do, he’s a lot more than that. What with all the times he’s fished yours truly out of the bisque de tomates grillées aux champignons, and the rather pleasant and easy relationship we’ve had in the between-times, I should add that in addition to being a superb valet, he’s also an indispensible friend, companion, and guide. Like a brother to me, is Jeeves!

Anyhow, like I said, you’d have thought, under the circs, that he’d realize I don’t do a lot of heavy thinking before I speak, and that he’d’ve known, therefore, that I was being completely literal when I asked him to “give me a reach-around and help me with this blasted knob.” I had no idea it was one of those phrases which can be taken in two ways. Double whatsits. Entendres! I certainly didn’t mean to double anyone’s entendre, far from it. I was only trying to deal with an uncooperative chest of drawers, for heaven’s sake!

Anyway, he coughed discreetly and excused himself from the room, leaving me alone to tug away at the old piece of wood in a state of considerable confusion. It was just thereafter that he seemed to find it imperative I go and marry some poor girl post-haste. I mean to say!

ETA: LJ cut. And one extra word. OCD.