I can never tell when I might have the Sultan of Brunei over for a polo match or when I may be hosting a convocation of the various captains of industry. There is nothing more gauche than escorting the King of Sweden into the Game Room (where all of the trophies I have hunted over the years are preserved and on display) only to find it dark. I would be practically CRUCIFIED in the society pages.

Moreover, while I understand that the less-fortunate have been prattling on about conservation (the concern of dwindling resources is not a concern that I share), were I to actually do that, I'm sure that I could hire someone to serve as my butler. From what I've heard, the lower echelons of the gentry are finding themselves in dire straits. Perhaps I'll hire a lord with little more than a title to his name to cleanse my behind after I finish my morning ablutions.

And so there is no quarrel, I am not even typing this. I engaged the finest primatologists from Oxford, Cambridge, and even (gasp)_Yale to train a team of bonobos to type comments for me when they are not busy manually masturbating one another.

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