[B1] "Flib on Bores," Spirit of the Times, Jan. 6, 1842

FLIB ON BORES.—The Bore Philosophic.—"Flib what are you thinking about?"

"Trying to class the various species of bores that intrude into our sanctum. First, there is the Bore Philosophic; a thing that reminds you now of an exceedingly small potatoe; again, of a miniature steam engine, always, panting, puffing, blowing, without doing any thing, and at all times it brings to mind a very little bladder puffed up by an exceedingly big straw. This bore stalks into the sanctum at the busiest times, with its hands in its pockets and its nose projecting, as if to smell out hidden truths; it squats itself in a spare seat, or if there is none, takes your own, and then leaning over the table, deafens you with a continued clatter about this thing and that, what's the reason the wind blows, why people's noses are fixed in the middle of their faces, or why monkies have tails, and other disquisitions equally learned and important. The misery of the thing is, that this bore expects you to reply to all he says. He confuses your ideas, knocks your thoughts into a gin shop, makes you commit the most horrible blunders in the world, which he is the first to find in next day's paper, and points them out to you in the coolest way imaginable, observing at the same time, "that it's no business of his'n, to be sure, but he is really very sorry to see so many mistakes in such a valuable paper——"

"Don't you know, Flib, that all this is libellous? You are slandering a numerous class of very respectable citizens—but supposing that the bores philosophic were an evil, how would you remedy it?"

"Tell 'em I had round toed boots."

Flib was sent down the cellar for coal.