It would be reasonable, should one suggest that “Rowdy” is the middle name of J.E. Gattis.
A word which appropriately describes his moral compass is “unique.”
He is surely the living death of American pietism.
For two jugs of wine and a bed with the town’s best lady, J.E. Gattis will be present at your contredanse. But it will take a third, fourth, and fifth jug for him to move his feet.
His stare causes apoplexy.
When he attends a cotillion, it becomes a world’s fair.
There is a certain je ne sais quoi about him, and a separate je ne sais quoi about his wang.
His demeanor is a sporting one, though no one who has bested him in leisurely matters has lived to best him twice.
For two dollars fifty, he will sing you a song. For a dollar more, he will make out with your mother.
J.E. Gattis will survive war and famine. He is these things. He’ll chase bulls in Paris, and make love in Pamplona. He’ll lose a son to hydrocephalis, and a daughter to the typhoid. He will see old men fall to their final knees, and new men write praises to them on computers. He will never die, really. Just as he was never really born.
He will only live forever in this gentlemanly place.