A Tribute to Amazon and PG Wodehouse

What ho, old chap! Hail fellow well met and all that. Have you heard? Apparently, the Drone Club is making its mark upon the world. One wouldn’t think our traditional little club in Mayfair would break new ground, but apparently, we are Modern. We’ve begun admitting ladies! Now, don’t let your face fall—it might freeze that way and then you’d be even less successful with the femmes than you are at present.


I must admit that at first, I had the same reaction—ladies in our cozy drawing room? It will ruin all the camaraderie, what? No more will the eggs, beans, and crumpets be perfectly free to be…well, eggs, beans, and crumpets. And you know I like girls just as much as the next chap—more, even!  (Well, perhaps only the good-looking ones.) Still, I must admit there’s part of me that feels as though the fairer sex is best admired at a distance.

But here’s the good news! These ladies…well, they’re Amazons. The mythological type, I gather, although I having trouble fathoming the idea of members who don’t actually exist. But no matter, old chap! I’ve always had a penchant for statuesque—some might even say Junoesque–women.  I believe it had something to do with my sister’s tennis instructor. Really, her backhand was unequalled.

Here’s the really shocking thing…apparently, once we align with these warrior princesses, we’ll actually take flight! Imagine—airborne drones gently floated aloft by love and devotion. Apparently, we’ll deliver parcels, too. Not sure how that happened, since all the Drones share an antipathy for work, but the love of a good woman and all that…

Look, chappie, I must fly—see what I did there? A joke, and it wasn’t even intentional! I owe Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton a tenner and he’s heading this way. Keep me in the know if you hear anything more about these non-pocket Venuses. Ta-ta!

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