A grizzled lone cowboy enters the chat. His boots a clankin' and his mustache flared along with his sun burnt nostrils. He sits down, pours himself a spot of tea; and takes a dainty, but masculine, mostly masculine, but a bit dainty, bite of a crumpet, as his other hand's pinky curled, as if in a genuflect respect to the tea he's holdin' in it. He clears his throat, preparing to lay down the proverbial law in the battle of wits and intellect that had ensued. All eyes are on him, as his lips part. He smacks them a bit, licking up a few crumbs of crumpet, and letting the rest fall to their doom in that grizzled forest of beard beneath that battle worn face.
"That my dear, is politeness," he grumbles in a plain, hushed, and hoarse tone.
The lady of the Inn over hears the conversation, rolling her eyes, as she folds the days bedding; "No my dear, politeness would have been wiping those boots of yours before helping yourself to those tea and crumpets."
The old grizzled cow warrior winces, as if mortally wounded, and gives the lady of the Inn an ireful glance. He paused a moment, took another bite of crumpet, and daintily (mostly extremely manly, just a slight bit dainty, it's tea after all) washed it down with a spot of tea, readying himself for his triumphant retort; "Is it now? Or is it a tactful way of saying the floors could be swept and mopped?"
The lady of the Inn huffed loader than a horse! She quickly composed herself. She waited till he finished his crumpets. She waited till he finished his tea. And then she brought out a mop and bucket of water, and stood over the grizzled cowboy with a look of triumph; and proceeded to replace his hat with an overturned mop bucket, water included, upon his head. "Well what do you call that?" she beamed at him, with a smile as glorious as a bloomin' sunflower.
He sat there for a moment, with no particular expression about him, as if there was a painting of the Mona Lisa herself, just on the wall in front of him, just calling to his careful consideration. He coughed a bit, cleared his throat, and spoke, "Well, now that's just rude."
Meanwhile the horse was outside, overhearing the lot of it. A fly landed on his hind quarters, rubbing his little fly hands together, scheming on where the best bullshit of the day might be. When suddenly the horse let out a mean fart, and started talking to himself, "Yeah well what do you call that!" The fly, startled, and overwhelmed by an odiferously miasmic cloud of gas, exclaimed, "nonsense, ya dumb horse."
helps with my visuals
I'm indifferent. I do however, find written censorship comical. Granted, that's because I'm used to seeing it in comic strips, so I mean comical in the literal sense of the word. But yes, it is also humorous at times. That we replaced sh!t with honeysuckle is quite amusing to me. Where's Jeremy Irons when I need him to get with Audrey Hepburn and sing "Why Can't The English?" for a good laugh. 
