From the Archives: The Brave Tale of Commodore Horatio Frobisher Greville "Fishbait" Palmer

The Palmers have never shrunk from their duty to serve the Republic they love so dear. Down through the generations, this fabled mishpoche of aristocrats, this noblest of noble clans has always arisen to shed their bluer than blue blood to defend our precious democracy.

Which statement I realize, as I type this, is a little contradictory. Huh. Wonder how it is I never noticed that before.

But I digress. Herein we delve into the Palmerwood archives to bring you the tale of Commodore Horatio Frobisher Greville "Fishbait" Palmer, hero of the War of 1812.

Commodore Palmer's major contribution to nautical warfare was the somewhat controversial reintroduction of the galley-ship. Long considered both obsolete (since Viking days, actually) and inhumane, the galley was a concept whose time, the Commodore was just sure as shootin', had come. Again.

"I don't care how big that man-o-war is," he was once heard to bellow from the fo'c'sle, "the fact that we're rowing gives us greater maneuverability."

The above picture also leads me to mention that the Cubbings family has faithfully served us for a long, long time.

In the spring of 1813, while the conflict considered by many eminent historians to be the Second War of Independence raged, the Commodore, accompanied by his hearty crew of galleymen, set off on a daring voyage across the Atlantic on a secret mission: a sneak attack on the English port of Swansea in retribution for the treacherous Redcoats' attack on Washington.

Limey bastards.

The voyage, however, took longer than Commodore Palmer had anticipated, and upon their arrival in 1815, they were greeted with the news that the war had ended the previous year.

Tragedy struck when, unexpectedly, a boathook caught the brave Commodore from behind and swept him out to sea. Thus perished both the redoubtable Commodore Palmer and his dream of seeing an ocean patrolled by American galley-ships.

It is recorded, however, that the mackerel they caught with him was the largest ever seen in the Bristol Channel.

In the Far West.

As I am an internationally-renowned celebrity, I’m in demand at chic glitterati-studded parties the world over. And, occasionally, I have been known to overindulge. But on this particular occasion, it wasn't my fault. I was entrapped most vilely in a sinister plot. Which, of course, I overcame. Hearken now to the thrilling tale of derring-do and adventure.

I awoke after one elegant black-tie gala soiree with a roaring champagne hangover next to an abandoned Esso station somewhere in the Nevada desert with no recollection how I got there, and vultures circling high overhead. This happens more often than I'd like to admit.

My patent-leather evening shoes crusted with the brains of Gila monsters and rattlesnakes I stomped on, and the crisply-starched ruffles on my shirt wilting, I trudged through the desert. My cracked, parched lips creaked open--a guttural croak rasped from my gritty throat: "S-s-s-Sambuca...properly chilled...w-w-w-with five...c-coffee beans...s-s-suspended on the s-s-s-surface."

And, exhausted, I lay on the hot desert ground, gasping my last.

"Farewell, you wisenheimers," I whispered, remembering those who had meant something to me: my executive chef, Bechamel de Bouillabaisse; my trusty gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere; my devoted but feeble-minded manservant, Cubbings: my ever-bloodthirsty heads of security, Matt Miller and Mike Dailey; my Parkinson's-afflicted personal tailor, Sal Sapienza; my personal mycologist and Keeper of the Palmerwood greenhouses Steven Bernstein, Esq.; my fellow country gentleman squire Tim Van Huss; fellow Kraken Club members, Jim Rhodes, Kyle Whipple; my devoted doctor to the peasantry, Rob Pooley, tireless crusader against peasant scrofula; my easily-distracted yacht-commander, Cap'n Stabbin, who won't leave his cabin; my personal mead-distiller and Palmerwood's bard-in-residence, Michael John Miller

But my time had not yet come. In the distance, I saw a cluster of dilapidated buildings. Upon closer examination, I saw that it was an abandoned mining-town--an Old West ghost town. Tumbleweeds blew past--a sign reading "Fudwupper's Livery Stable" hung from a dilapidated clapboard building, creaking slightly as it blows in the hot desert wind.

Abandoned? I narrowed my hawklike eyes. Something didn’t feel right.

In the saloon, a ghastly sight met my eyes--skeletons with rags of clothing dangling from their bones lay on the floors and across the bar, sitting at the piano. A massacre took place here. There were, however, a few unopened bottles of "Uncle Phil's Dyspeptic Grizzly Corn-Squeezin's Whiskey" behind the bar. I’d averted by dehydration narrowly... but the mystery remained.



Slightly buzzed from, but eminently restored by, the two bottles of "Uncle Phil's Dyspeptic Grizzly Corn-Squeezin's Whiskey" I found in the skeleton-strewn saloon*, I strolled through the ghost-town, stomping nonchalantly on a few more Gila monsters, when suddenly, WHOOSH—I fell into an abandoned mineshaft, obscured by a patch of jimsonweed. Definitely not, I assure you, screaming like a six-year-old girl with her pigtails caught in a paper-shredder, I landed--rather hard, I might add--on my fanny at the bottom of the old mineshaft. I pulled my grandfather's antique monogrammed silver Zippo from my pocket, lit a cigar, and smoked morosely in the darkness. Somewhat belatedly, I also remembered that a lighter can be used to produce light, so I fired up his Zippo again.

I found myself in a cavernous...uh... cavern deep below the earth. Yet more skeletons litter the ground. Eyes narrowed, puffing furiously on my Cohiba, I examined them.

One wore a Teamsters jacket and a pinkie ring! I examined the skeleton's wallet. As I suspected, Jimmy Hoffa. One wore an old-fashioned leather aviator cap--clearly Amelia Earhart. Another had a bag of money--$200,000, all bills dated before 1971--D.B. Cooper! Another held, in its bony fingers, a few pages of handwritten pages with entries from something called "The Devil's Dictionary"--Good God's urge, it's Ambrose Bierce! What in the name of sweet holy baby Moses had I stumbled upon?

Mystified by the presence of the moldering bones of famous disappearances down this old mineshaft, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to fill my grandfather's vintage silver monogrammed Zippo. It flickered out, plunging me back into total darkness... except for that tiny little pinprick of light at the end of a very long tunnel. I scrambled toward it and clambered through a crack in the stone, tumbled down a small incline, stood up, brushed off my dinner-jacket, puffed on my expensive Cuban Cohiba, and looked around.

"Great zounds!" I muttered in my sensual, well-modulated baritone (you should only hear that voice of mine. Listening to me talk feels like someone's pouring warm maple syrup on your naked flesh. Next to my voice, Barry White sounds like a chainsmoking crow gargling broken glass). "This is a bit unexpected!"

I’d emerged from the abandoned mineshaft into a valley. Pacific pines and juniper trees dotted the landscape… a crystal-clear lake shimmered to my left.

Thirsty, I ambled toward the lake, and, like Gideon's men of old, descended to my hands and knees to whet my whistle. But as I slurped up water, something moved in the water, and a tall, flat, grayish-black tail slapped me in the face.

Again NOT shrieking in terror like a little girl, I leaped back and stared into the water. The creature, whatever it was, retreated into the depths... but I got a halfway good look at it. Great zounds! Had I stumbled upon... the Legendary Giant Black Salamanders of the Trinity Alps?!?*

Things looked bleak. No food, no weapons, and the only source of water is full of rapacious carnivorous giant salamanders the size of crocodiles. One of them surfaced and snapped at me, displaying a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.

So I wasn’t at all surprised to hear a voice dripping with evil say, "Welcome to my little far-western getaway, Mister Palmer. I've been expecting you for some time."

I spun around. There stood the Prince of Evil himself: Rupert Murdoch. The withered old reptile held a chain in one claw, the other end of which was attached to a dog collar around the neck of a blonde woman who crouched next to him on all fours, wearing only a leather thong and a ballgag. 

"Murdoch, you withered old reptile," I snarled, and then looked more closely at the woman. "Say, is that Megyn Kelly of Fox News? Why's she got a ballgag in her mouth?"

"Ohhhh, she likes it, the naughty minx," hissed Murdoch, and swats her fanny with a riding crop. "Plus it keeps her from saying moronic things like Jesus was white. It's okay for my brainwashed viewers, but I personally can't stand to listen to her."

He swatted her again. THWACK. "MMMMPPHH!" she groaned around the ballgag.

"Most intelligent utterance she's ever made," I quipped with my customary devastating wit.

"Undoubtedly," croaked the withered old reptile. "But enough small talk, Mister Palmer. I'm sure you're just dying to know why I brought you here.”

"Do your worst, you withered old reptile," I sneered at the withered old reptile. "There's a squad of minions on their way right now. One's a librarian, and we both know books are Fox News's kryptonite. One's gay, and might actually show up in drag. See what THAT does to your family-values agenda. Two of them might actually be registered Republicans, but they're fiercely loyal and value mayhem and bloodshed over ideology any day."

"Enough of your bravado, Mister Palmer," Murdoch hissed, pointing a gun at me. "This way. I have more than enough time to complete my nefarious plan before your little pals show up."

My hands in the air, I marched into a subterranean passage ahead of the withered old reptile.

Some distance down the passageway, I entered a large room. A cage filled with fake trees and tire swings stood there. Ann Coulter, Lawrence Kudlow, Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Neil Cavuto, and Greta Van Susteren cavort about inside it, grooming each other, beating their chests, and eating bananas.

"Careful as we pass the Fox pundits' cage," Murdoch says in a wheezy chuckle. "They've been known to throw their...but surely I needn't explain further."

In the pundits' cage, Neil Cavuto crouches, leering at Megyn Kelly'; Bill O'Reilly clambers on a tire-swing; Greta Van Susteren picks nits from Sean Hannity's shoulders; and Ann Coulter snarls ferally behind Greta.

There stood a pair of surgical tables. On one of them lay an unconscious, pasty, dough-faced man. Even sedated, his lip curled in a supercilious sneer.

"Good God's urge! Dick Cheney!" I shouted. "Let me guess. He needs another heart transplant, and you brought me here to rip out my mighty heart and give it to him, that he might live another century?"

"Close but no cigar, Mister Palmer," hissed the withered old reptile. "The Dark Lord has no heart. He gets by just fine without one. That heart transplant nonsense is just a story we tell the masses. No, the Dark Lord survives on pure bile alone--you can imagine the strain it puts on his liver. He doesn't need a heart--he needs another liver. And yours, my Scotch-, ouzo-, and vodka-swilling friend, is legendary."

The withered old reptile's flunkies strapped me to the other surgical table. A diabolical surgeon, scalpel in hand, leaned forward to chop open my chiseled six-pack of an abdomen. Megyn Kelly began to drool around the ballgag in her stupid mouth.

"Too bad this isn't covered by Obamacare," wheezes the withered old reptile Murdoch. "Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh."

My mind raced furiously. Suddenly, I had an inspiration. "HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.



The Fox News pundits in their monkey-cage suddenly stopped grooming each other. "WAR ON CHRISTMAS!" shrieked Ann Coulter. "WAR ON CHRISTMAS, WAR ON CHRISTMAS, WAR ON CHRISTMAS!" shrieked O'Reilly, Hannity, Van Susteren. They began leaping up and down, frothing at the mouth and beating their chests, a homicidal glint in their tiny primate eyes. Their rage giving them super-monkey powers, they pulled bars apart and burst out of the cage, indiscriminately wrecking and destroying all in their path.

"NOOOOO!" howled the withered old reptile, "what about the Dark Lord's new liver?" as a scene of utter pandemonium ensued.

In the unutterable mayhem, I deftly grabbed the diabolical surgeon's scalpel between my teeth and cut the leather restraints.

"CURSE YOU, PALMER!" wheezed Rupert Murdoch. "You've won this round, but not the war!" The withered old reptile pressed the the "Self-Destruct" button on the instrument panel and slithered away into an open drainpipe. I fled back up the passageway as an electronic voice recited, "Sinister secret subterranean far western hideout will self-destruct in ten seconds... nine... eight..." and leaped outside just as a devastating explosion rocked the mountainside.

Having fled the inferno that consumed the withered old reptile Rupert Murdoch's secret subterranean lair, I heard something behind me. I spun around to see a hideously burned and disfigured Sean Hannity emerging from the tunnel. Predictably, his asbestos-like hair was unharmed.

"AHHRRR... 'N... HRISS'AS!"* he rasped through his lipless mouth, raising Murdoch's gun to finish JP off once and for all... when a giant voracious rapacious carnivorous salamander lurched from the crystal-clear mountain lake. In two chomps, the amphibian swallowed him, leading me to reflect for a moment on the irony of a Fox pundit being consumed by a Newt.



As Sean Hannity disappeared down the giant salamander's throat, I watched the helicopter land and an elite squad of minions swarm out of it. They are an awe-inspiring lot: desperate, bloodthirsty, armed to the teeth, bristling with weapons, and, JP is pleased to note, impeccably accessorized.

"Gents," I said, "I do hope that's 18-year single-malt in the 'copter. I've worked up a powerful thirst. And of your courtesy, would you mind wrangling that 'mander on board? The children need a new pet."

And now, in the finest literary tradition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Edgar Allan Poe, Rex Stout, and Scooby-Doo: the part where the hero sums it all up and explains it. 

*By the way, these are real(ish) things. Many people over the years have reported seeing giant salamanders in a remote lake in the American far west. Click on the link to learn a little more about these things.

I love cryptozoology. 

The World According to JP.

As the Palmerwood mythos began to crystallize, I took an early stab at a visual representation of the vision of reality now emerging.

JP himself, resplendent in bow tie, running shorts, and Nikes, and brandishing cigar, martini, and AK-47, stands forefront, flanked by his children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. Stella holds her trademark harpoon-gun, and Leo his katanas.

Immediately behind them lies a dead intelligent air-breathing giant squid. Behind it, a heap of easily-dispatched zombies, and behind that stand the statues of my three heroes, Noam Chomsky, Joseph Pulitzer, and Bob Dylan.

In the background stands the Old Train Station, which is such an important setting of American legend and folklore. And behind it is, of course, my 180-foot yacht, the "Raconteur," and an early version of Palmerwood.


And because I believe that every American deserves the same protections as the Republic herself receives, I decided to make available a special set of ACTION FIGURES!!!

Well, that, and because, hell, why not make a buck where you can?

Springtime at Palmerwood.

When I'm not gallantly slaying and eviscerating the enemies of the Republic we all hold so dear, partying with A-list glitterati, cruising the world on my 180-foot yacht, the "Raconteur," jetting to all manner of exotic locations aboard my sumptuous G-4, or managing the multitudinous business affairs of the far-flung Palmer empire, I enjoy rusticating at my historic country estate of Palmerwood.

Ah, beloved Palmerwood, with its gardens, its stock-barns, its fields of cotton, tobacco, and indigo, its lakes and ponds brimming with perch, trout, and giant squid.

Enchanting Palmerwood, where the cries of the peacocks echo over the stone ramparts, where the lowing of the Hereford cattle rumbles in low and soothing undertone, and where the fragrance of the English climbing roses almost covers the stench wafting toward the manor-house from the peasant-mews.

Hmm. It's particularly sharp to-day. Damme the luck, if there's been another dysentery outbreak. Must have a word with Dr. Pooley about that. But I digress. Back to my pastoral reflections.

Magnificent Palmerwood, with its rolling expanse of pasturage and hunting-grounds, its exquisitely-appointed log-cabin hunting-lodges, its wooded hills teeming with yetis, its gentle valleys full of grazing stock, and its views of the Mississippi River and the St. Louis Arch off in the distance.

Majestic Palmerwood, with its armies of retainers and faithful servants, its helipad, its landing strip, its docks and marina, its armories and lighthouses. It is truly a wondrous place, a place to warm the cockles of the heart of every well-appointed fabulously wealthy country gentleman.

But perhaps its most distinguished feature is my prized herd of pedigreed Eurasian wild boars.

For years, I've been cultivating and breeding a particularly large and vicious strain of Sus Scrofa, the common wild boar. Bloodthirsty, massive, immensely powerful and inordinately clever, these beasts are the flower of Palmerwood's livestock. You simply can't imagine the thrill of chasing one of these gigantic boar-hogs into the field, the adrenaline rush of battle, and the exuberance of the triumph of eventually landing the beast.

Not only do they make for magnificent hunting, they're also delicious when ground up, flavored with pungent spices, and stuffed inside the body-cavities of coturnix quail by my executive chef, M. Bechamel de Bouillabaisse.

Springtime is the rutting-season of the prize pedigreed Palmerwood piggies. A magical season in all ways. Here's a snapshot of me in my country-tweeds, tailored expressly for me by MacGlanhorbernathyghannitie & Sons of Edinburgh (what they lack in pronounceability they make up in talent with thread and needle) and my redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, as we survey the boar-herds. Soon, as the snow recedes, the daisies peek forth, and Mistress Spring touches the earth with her bounty, the hunting-horns will once more ring out over the hills and dales of Palmerwood. Tally-ho!

Of Volunteer Work and Giant Pigs

Nothing is more rewarding than giving back to the community, is it? And to whom much is given, much is expected.

As a man of singular gifts, it behooved me to seek out a volunteer opportunity worthy of my talents... something a lesser man simply wouldn't dare to undertake.

There is a menace stalking America as dire as any Redcoat who ever burned the White House in 1812, as any Mexican who attacked the Alamo, or as any Commie who ever lurked under good American beds in the 50's.

I refer, of course, to the giant feral hogs currently rooting their way through the Deep South.

So when I heard of the Giant Feral Boar terrorizing the good people of Choctaw Flats, GA, and the terrors wreaked upon dear old Mrs. Clatterbuck's prize turnip patch, I knew I'd found my opportunity to serve my fellow man. Even if I don't like the way Southerners vote. Maybe some Yankee beneficence would bring them around and show them we're not all a bunch of carpetbaggers.

As you can see from this photograph, giant feral hogs are no laughing matter.

*

Immediately, I winged my way south on my luxurious G-4, and began my hunt for the beast, which the Minions, after due consideration, renamed Beel Z. Bubba. The locals had originally named him Mr. Pigglesby, but there was no way I could bring myself to kill something called "Mr. Pigglesby."

The hunt began.



Notice how I crouched, pantherlike, like a coiled spring of violence and vengeance, at the mouth of the beast's lair, when I'd finally tracked it to its foul digs. 

Beel Z. Bubba's eventual emergence from his cave from its cave gave me occasion to reflect on John Lennon's words: "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." The giant feral hog of Choctaw Flats, GA, turned out, like so many things in life, not to be precisely what was expected. 

I left left the town of Choctaw Flats and Mrs. Clatterbuck's turnip patch safer and happier places. Volunteering feels good. Winging my way home aboard my luxurious private G4 with a stack of "Maxim" back issues, a bottle of chilled vodka, a fine Cuban Cohiba, and Intrepid Stella A.'s newest pet cuddling next to me, I reflected on the wisdom of Franklin D. Roosevelt's adage: "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

*There may well be some scoffers out there who claim this looks like one of the enteledonts from the BBC series "Walking With Prehistoric Beasts." To such skepticism, I can only say that haters gonna hate. 

Pets.

Boy howdy, do I hate the Romneys and everything they stand for. I despise the whole lot of them--Mitt and Ann and their five identical clone-sons, Tagg, Flugg, Blugg, Gagg, and Boba Fett.

Hate 'em.

But I have to admit that Ann seems to get a lot of enjoyment from her Olympic-caliber dressage horse, "Rafalca." Here's a picture of them both together.

Doesn't she look happy and well-adjusted, standing next to that beautiful animal?

Wait, what? What's that you say? You say that's not "Rafalca" the dressage horse standing next to the lovely Mrs. Romney? You say that's actually Paul Ryan's wife Janna?

Well, I'll be damned. And here I was sure that was "Rafalca." It sure looks like a horse. Hell, I can tell how old it is just by looking at its teeth. 

Boy, do I have egg on my face! Well, anyhow, the point still stands. Having a pet seems to have done wonders for Mrs. Romney's disposition. And as I have tendencies toward crankiness and malcontentism, I thought maybe I should look into getting some pets as well.

I've always had a thing for Sea Monkeys, so I decided to buy some. Seriously, who could resist them? Look at this happy, smiling, perfect aquatic family. Why, they look almost as well-scrubbed and happy and wholesome as the Romneys themselves.

So I went for it and ordered the whole Sea Monkey kit. Boy oh boy, was I excited! I was dreaming of watching these tiny, delicate, underwater humanoids perform their graceful underwater ballet for hours. It was going to be spellbinding. I was just sure of it. 

But upon my initial examination through a magnifying glass, I was a little surprised, and, frankly, disheartened. My Sea Monkeys weren't at all what I'd expected them to be.



Further observation of the Sea Monkeys left me even more disappointed.

Yet further observation revealed the source of the problem. They weren't Sea Monkeys at all. They were... they were... gasp... TEA MONKEYS. 

Heartbroken, I regretfully made the difficult decision to boil the Tea Monkeys alive. It was tough, but it was, undoubtedly, the most humane way to deal with the situation.

Except for the one who expressed serious doubts about my existence. For some reason, I liked him. I decided to let him live.

From the Archives: The Black Sheep.

Naturally, the hyperblueblooded, superaristocratic Palmers of Palmerwood have a long and noble lineage of illustrious forebears, many of whose exploits I'll be posting here. 

But every family does have its black sheep. A family tree so ancient is bound to have produced its share of bad apples--bad men and desperate, too, living by their wits, their guns, and their luck--and here's one from the Palmerwood Archives. 

We will be revisiting the archives in due course over the succeeding weeks. 

Posted below, for your consideration and edification, is my great-great-great-granduncle JUNIUS WILKES PALMER, known colloquially as "Four-Flushin'" Palmer,  who made a small fortune in Canyon Diablo, AZ, in 1882. How'd he do it? Well, he started with a large fortune. 

Here he is with notorious sharks Squinting Vulture, Mississippi Phil, and Prospectin' Pecos Pete, the alliteratin'est man west of the Rockies.

Sadly, Four-Flushin' Palmer didn't live long after this picture was taken. He was, by all accounts, a low-down dirty snake in the grass, a scoundrel, a wastrel, a rascal, a rapscallion, a shnook, a crook, a rounder, a bounder, and an all-around bad actor.

After an ill-spent life of ramblin', gamblin', carousin', womanizin', raisin' cain, and other unspecified poor behavior, he was dispatched in a manner befitting a man whose sins were many and legion. 

I don't know all the specifics, but I do know it was a rubber-tired buggy, double-seated hack, took ol' Junius to the cemetery, but they failed to bring him back.

What The World Looks Like To Me in the Summertime

I despise winter.

Not merely because of the annual onset of yeti attacks, but for every other reason as well. Any characteristic, any descriptor you can use on winter, and I hate it. I hate fall, too. Fall is the year receiving the news that it has only a couple of months to live.

Pumpkins, snow, snowmen, Thanksgiving, Christmukkah, football, gluttony, changing leaves, early evenings, I hate them all.

But I do love summertime. I love summer not only because of the warmth, the long hours of daylight, the relaxed pace of life, the fresh produce, and the ability to do a lot more stuff outside. I also likesit because the world just... looks... better.

The Ultimate Threat.

This small series begins on a day when my children and I were enjoying a leisurely Saturday morning down at Palm Lake, when my phone rang...

Terrified for their safety, I immediately rushed the poppets to the secret underground bunker I had built some years ago.

I watched helplessly as an even sleeker sleek European roadster than the one I drive came barreling through the massive wrought-iron front gates, up the main drive, and around the Impressive Circular Drive in front of the mansion, and trembled as the door swung open, disgorging its occupant... my dad, JP Senior.

I submitted to a little friendly paternal advice, delivered with love.

As the old boy roared off, I reflected ruefully that no matter how many zombies you slaughter, how many attack-trained birds of prey you fend off, how many supply-side economists you massacre, how many ninjas you eviscerate, and how many times you save the Republic from disaster, one dressing-down from your old man can still make you feel about an inch tall.

The Children, Part II.

Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. maintain ferociously busy schedules. There's homework to be ignored, vegetables to be refused, guinea-pigs to be cuddled, fish tanks to be scrubbed, beds not to be made, baths to he fought against, parents to be lipped off to, a whole arsenal of small electronic beeping things to be endlessly fiddled with, game pieces to be thrown at each other... great zounds, the Palmerlets are simply swamped. It's exhausting. Were it not for their youthful vitality and a certain most likely congenital elan of spirit, why, I don't see how they could keep up.

Naturally, the children value their down-time as much as their parents do. And their mother and I endeavor to teach them the benefits of leisure as an opportunity to rejuvenate one's flagging reserves of mental and physical energy.

Here are a few snapshots of the precious poppets enjoying a trip to the beach, where, of course, we rough it in our humble 30-bedroom beach cabin on the Isle of Palms after cruising down the Mississippi, through the Gulf of Mexico, around Florida, and up the Atlantic Coast in my 180-ft yacht, the "Raconteur," commanded by the redoubtable Cap'n Stabbin and his crew of voluptuous sea-minxes.



Here, the salty little pishers can't wait to show Daddy some of the treasures they've found on the beach!

And in this one, the sun-kissed little Palmerlings enjoy a spot of windsurfing. One needn't sacrifice physical fitness on vacation!

The Children.

The children of Palmerwood, the latest scions of the ancient dynasty, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo "4xL"* J., are just as adventurous as their old man. Insofar as they are both rather young, however, their judgment is not always the keenest, and occasionally, their impetuosity leads them to undertake projects against which their wiser seniors may caution them.

Here, after one too many viewings of "Animal Planet," one too many Dr. Seuss books, and one too many trips to Yo My Goodness, Intrepid Stella A. attempts to talk her little brother into an expedition to capture the Frozen-Yogurt Dispensing Eskaroo of the Jungle of Nidd.

The expedition goes slightly awry when the explorers fail to find the Jungle of Nidd on any of their carefully prepared maps and charts, and end up instead in the mangrove swamps of Borneo. 

The expedition leads the siblings to the pampas of Argentina, where they discover a particularly vicious species of avian long since thought extinct. 

The expedition leads the young Palmerlets deep into the Andes, where they encounter yet another species long thought one with the ages. 

Somewhat disappointed, the moppets return to Palmerwood and endure a well-deserved dressing-down from the old man.

Somewhat chastened, the kiddiewinks return to somewhat safer recreational pursuits.

*as he was nicknamed by the head pilot/curator of the Aviation Library: "Ladies Love Little Leo." He is a mighty cute little fella. 

A Palmerwood Panorama.

For those of you who haven't seen it, it might be helpful to see a layout of the place.

Many of the most faithful minions have their own responsibilities around the place.

The Yetis.

Of the many perils that beset all true Americans and all denizens of the Republic we hold so dear, few are as fearsome as the Yetis. I've battled these fell beasts on more occasions than you can shake a stick at.

Winter, as every normal person knows, is hell on earth, Satan's own season. As the temperature drops, the days shorten, and the snow begins to fall, winter's own demons return to the Midwest from the frozen north, whence they migrate in warmer seasons.

These hulking, shaggy, primitive hominids lurk deep in the forests of Palmerwood's vast hunting-grounds and emerge during the wintertime to lay siege to Palmerwood and its environs. Massive, forbidding, malodorous, and irritating, these benighted primates, these mockeries of mankind, this hideously ill-evolved branch off our own evolutionary family tree, these distant, demonic relatives of ours will stalk the mansion like wolves, testing its defenses, always remaining just out of range of our hunting-rifles with the cunning of the wild beast and near-human intelligence.

Their presence terrifies the stock and peasants, raising fear to a fever pitch, until they burst in, bringing all the fury of hell with him. Having breached the manor's defenses, they unleash a brand of havoc at which the weak cry out in terror and even the strongest man laments.

They drink all the good Scotch, they eat you out of house and home, they smoke all your cigars, they make rude and belittling comments about your taste in home furnishings, they take over the stereo and play "Get Down Tonight" by KC and the Sunshine Band over and over and over, they tell inappropriate jokes in front of your children, and they stay WAAAAAAY too late.

Here's a visual record of one occasion where they burst through our defenses and comported themselves rudely. Notice how they're eating all the quail-egg canapes and Cornish game hens, and how they're defacing the portraits of my ancestors.

I hate them damn yetis.

Like all preternaturally tacky beings, they love selfies and duck-faces. Also, they're big fans of Christmas, and, horrifyingly, they drag you into the picture when you clearly have no desire to have your picture taken. 

I once posted a note to Facebook for the Minions' edification explaining the difference between yetis and sasquatches. 

FROM JP'S FIELD GUIDE: "YETIS v. SASQUATCHES (BIGFOOTS ((FEET)) )."

Frens and minions! Greetings from the high-ceilinged, oak-paneled, book-lined study of my luxurious, 40-bedroom, historic ancestral country estate of Palmerwood, located in the rolling hills of suburban St. Louis! I hope you're well.

Well, damn the luck, fall is upon us again, and, as always, fall brings with it some rather unusual cold-weather flora and fauna. Many of you may have questions about the strange beasts you might see shambling across your own expansive lawns and through your own wooded glades, and occasionally attacking your manor-house. I thought I'd take a few quick moments to share some insights and information about two of the most common.

I was recently asked if there was any difference between yetis and Bigfoots/feet/feets (hell, let's just call them Sasquatches). It's a fair question, and one which deserves an answer.

There are some similarities. Both of them are large, hairy Australopithecene hominid primates. They are in fact closely related. DNA analyses are, at present, inconclusive, but indicate that they are members of the same species--we can think of them as subspecies, and can safely refer to them in layman's terms as cousins.

But there are differences--mostly cultural.

Your average sasquatch is a laid-back, down-to-earth, likable fella who wears flannel shirts, jeans, and hiking boots (or would, if he wore clothes. They don't). He enjoys grilling out, fishing, and drinking a beer (Sam Adams or Blue Moon) from time to time. He's also not above taking a hit or two off a joint, if someone has one. It's certainly not a habit with him, but he's a mellow chap. He's a genuinely good guy--affable, always laughs at your jokes, takes kidding well, and doesn't take himself too seriously. He's a classic rock guy, and generally keeps an acoustic guitar in his pickup--but he never takes it out and starts playing unless he's asked to. He's not a habitual smoker, but if he does occasionally bum a cigarette, he always brings you a full pack the next time he sees you. He likes the woods, and although he doesn't mind being alone, he's always glad to go fishing with you, and always has an extra rod just in case you don't have one.

The yeti, on the other hand, is your typical, standard, textbook nouveau-riche parvenu. He's a social climber, pretentious as hell, and obnoxious as the dickens. He drinks Courvoisier and Cointreau, not because he enjoys them, but because he thinks they're the "classy" beverages to drink. He has absolutely no taste, no sense of propriety, and no manners. He wears expensive, loudly-patterned sport coats, diamond Rolexes, and Bruno Maglis. He's tacky.

One of the best ways to differentiate between them is by judging your own reaction to their assaults on your home. The Sasquatch never besieges your home empty-handed. You're genuinely glad to see him. He never overstays his welcome. If, when he leaves, you say, "Hey, you need to to come back again soon" and you mean it, he's most likely a Sasquatch.

The yeti, on the other hand, never brings anything.  If, when he finally leaves, you say, "We should get together again soon" but you have absolutely no intention of doing so, he's most likely a yeti.

Also, yetis have white fur and Sasquatches have a rich, chocolaty-brown, tweedy hue.

Well, that's all for this edition of "From JP's Field Guide." I hope it's been both illuminating and helpful. Until next time, and may God your gold refine, guide your steps, and bless thee and all who sail in thee! Excelsior, minions!

About the only thing I can say in their defense is that yetis are, occasionally, good art critics. Like me, they hate Bitstrips with a passion.