One recent morning, in my typically baronial fashion, I descended the Grand Escalier of my magnificent, rambling, luxurious manor-house of my sprawling country estate, Palmerwood. I found myself in a particularly cheery mood this morning. What, oh what, could have put me in such a good humor? Whatever could I have been anticipating???
I made my way through the cavernous hallways of Palmerwood, which is a bit of a shlep and a half, let me tell YOU. It was some walk. I should look into a segway. But the light in my eye remained undimmed, and the song in my heart remained unmuted. What, oh what, awaited me in the Grand Entrance Hall of his stately, luxurious, baronial manor house of my rambling country estate?
(These scenes of majestic Palmerwood do nothing to advance the plot. I just put them in to make you jelly. Because I'm a jerk. Are you jelly? Don't be jelly. At least you're not a jerk.)
(These scenes of majestic Palmerwood do nothing to advance the plot. I just put them in to make you jelly. Because I'm a jerk. Are you jelly? Don't be jelly. At least you're not a jerk.)
Calves ablaze from my three mile trek to the Grand Entrance Hall, I was just thrilled to meet the famed British explorer, naturalist, conservationist, and host of Animal Planet's "Animal Planet After Dark--Surprisingly Human!" program, Sir Rodger Shaggs-Bummeswell, Ph.D, OBE*! What an honor it was to have such an illustrious character here at Palmerwood! Whatever could have brought Sir Rodger here??
I listened carefully as Sir Rodger Shaggs-Bummeswell, over lapsang souchong served in Palmerwood's antique museum-quality Sevres teacups, described his upcoming expedition: a field trip to Speck Island, the home of the rare Van Haarpoon's Penguin--the only penguin which, Sir Rodger says, lives at both the North and South Poles.
Now as a fabulously wealthy blue-blooded aristocrat, I, of course, am used to being dunned for all manner of charitable causes. Why, I'm quite liberal donor to the American Profanity Association, the Home for Old Auctioneers, the Society for the Preservation of Pleated Trousers, and Save the 18 Year Old Swedish Au Pairs (I still feels bad about what happened that weekend when Young Leo J. swiped his platinum card, commandeered the G-4, and took those poor girls to Macau). (The boy is still grounded.)
So I was just about ready to pull out my checkbook when Sir Rodger said, "No, no, JP--I don't want your money! I'm asking you to JOIN the expedition!"
(Clever minions will have noticed something rather odd about the upcoming expedition. I cleverly embedded a hint of the upcoming trouble. This is known as "foreshadowing." Did you notice it? No? Well, keep reading.)
I rushed to swaddle myself in my luxurious double-breasted snow-leopard man-fur with matching shapka (mentioning that I own such a magnificent ensemble does nothing to advance the plot. I just put it in there to make you jelly. Are you jelly? Don't be jelly. At least YOU'RE not a big enough jerk to wear clothes made out of endangered species) prepared to board my helicopter (yeah, I've got one. Jelly?) en route to Speck Island, the home of the endangered Van Haarpoon's penguin, the only penguin that lives at both the North and South Poles.
I was accosted at the Palmerwood Helipad by my children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. The little darlings, how they hate to be separated from their daddy. How they begged me not to leave! "Don't leave, Pop!" they implored me. "We'll miss you so! Dear old Pop!"
"Now, now, little Palmerkins," I said in my calming baritone. "The very rare Van Haarpoon's Penguin of Speck Island, the only penguin that lives at both the North and South Poles, isn't going to save itself. Don't bother your alarmingly knocked-up mother, mind Dear Old Nanny Klagg, do your homework, leave the M-80s in the Armory, and brush your teeth. Daddy will be home soon."
En route to Speck Island in my helicopter, I was, of course, unable to see the evil grins that spread like an oil slick over the faces of my children.
"Well, that's gotten rid of Dimbulb Dad for the moment," Intrepid Stella A. says. "Pay the man, Leo, and let's be about our business."
Sir Rodger Shaggs-Bummeswell was certainly glad to accept the money the adorable lil' Palmerkins are paying him for having been a diversion, but his attention was focused more on giving his number to a starstruck female (we assume, although it's hard to tell) yeti.
"Call me," he said, eyes a-twinkle. "You've got star quality, honey, that's for sure. Play your cards right, and I'll get you on 'Animal Planet--After Dark.' I do find you... surprisingly human."
I must confess to having been a little less than impressed with the "Green Warrior Galleon," the ship that took Cubbings and me to Speck Island to save the Van Haarpoon's Penguin (the only penguin in the world that lives at both the North and South Poles). There didn't seem to be a casino, and I couldn't find the bar to save my soul. Thank the good Lord I always travel with my own liquor and Cuban cigars, eh?!
But, unflagging optimist that I am, I decided to make the best of it. Here I am meeting my fellow environmental activists and conservation crusaders, "Wolfsong" Williams and "Moonbeam" Moskowitz, and regaling them with tales of the last Great Autumn Hunt. "Great zounds," I said, "we must have bagged over a hundred capercaillies, nearly 200 ruffed grouse, almost seventy ring-necked pheasants, twelve moose, fifteen elk, about thirty bison, seven prized polled Palmerwood wild boars, and four peasants! Well, the peasants were accidental. Anyhow, I suspect they were poaching. Got what was coming to them, the bounders, didn't they?"
Moonbeam and Wolfsong looked so impressed (if I didn't know better, I'd have thought they looked appalled) that I invited them to Palmerwood for the 2015 Great Autumn Hunt. They were absolutely speechless with gratitude. Or maybe they're jelly. Are they jelly? They shouldn't be jelly.
Now on to some fashion advice. I cast about for the gentlest way to tell Moonbeam she must needs don a brassiere, and to tell Wolfsong to switch the patchouli for Polo's "Grey Flannel." They seemed reluctant. Or maybe they were just a bit shy in the dazzling presence of an international jetsetting celebrity and Selfless Defender of the Republic. Baby steps.
But, unflagging optimist that I am, I decided to make the best of it. Here I am meeting my fellow environmental activists and conservation crusaders, "Wolfsong" Williams and "Moonbeam" Moskowitz, and regaling them with tales of the last Great Autumn Hunt. "Great zounds," I said, "we must have bagged over a hundred capercaillies, nearly 200 ruffed grouse, almost seventy ring-necked pheasants, twelve moose, fifteen elk, about thirty bison, seven prized polled Palmerwood wild boars, and four peasants! Well, the peasants were accidental. Anyhow, I suspect they were poaching. Got what was coming to them, the bounders, didn't they?"
Moonbeam and Wolfsong looked so impressed (if I didn't know better, I'd have thought they looked appalled) that I invited them to Palmerwood for the 2015 Great Autumn Hunt. They were absolutely speechless with gratitude. Or maybe they're jelly. Are they jelly? They shouldn't be jelly.
Now on to some fashion advice. I cast about for the gentlest way to tell Moonbeam she must needs don a brassiere, and to tell Wolfsong to switch the patchouli for Polo's "Grey Flannel." They seemed reluctant. Or maybe they were just a bit shy in the dazzling presence of an international jetsetting celebrity and Selfless Defender of the Republic. Baby steps.
Well, finally, the "Green Warrior Galleon" hove into view of the Godforsaken archipelago wherein is located Speck Island, the home of the rare Van Haarpoon's Penguin, the only penguin that lives at both the North and South Poles. Cubbings and I hopped into the raft and rowed our way ashore. I couldn't help but be a little proud of myself for bringing Cubbings along for the holiday. Doesn't he look like the fresh air is doing him a world of good?
At long last, I and my dull-witted but loyal manservant, Cubbings, arrived on Speck Island--the home of the very rare Van Haarpoon's Penguin, the only penguin that lives at both the North and South Poles.
Now, I, of course, am a hardbitten and vicious warrior against all threats to the Republic. Evisceration and vengeance are my middle names. But I'm no more immune to unbearable cuteness than the next fella, and I was overcome.
"Oooooohhh, WOOK at da widdle cweatures!" I gushed. "WOOK at da widdle cuties! Why, they all look like widdle Cubbingses! Look, Cubbings, they all look like widdle you's!"
Cubbings, rubbing a sore arm after rowing ashore (it's his own fault if he doesn't keep himself in tip-top physical condition. I had no sympathy) was less enamored of the precious little penguins, who rushed to greet the newcomers.
Now, I certainly respect wild animals. I ought to. God knows I've offed a lot of them. But I simply couldn't resist t the urge to pick up one of these adorable, unbearably precious little Van Haarpoon's penguins--the only penguins that live at both the North and South Poles--and cuddle the little critter.
I was so intent on showering the little beast with affection that I failed to notice--as Cubbings did--a strange and ominous change in the Van Haarpoon's penguins' demeanor.
It was at that point that I realized I'd misinterpreted some information about the Van Haarpoon's penguin.
Now you, the reader, probably noticed this about eight or so stupid cartoons back. "How on earth," you probably wondered, "can the Van Haarpoon's Penguin live at both the North and the South Pole when it clearly lives only on Speck Island, which is located at neither the North nor the South Pole?"
Oh, I'm sure you sat there, warm and secure in your own oak-paneled library, chuckling smugly like the smug bastard you are, sipping your Cointreau and sniggering over how stupid I was. Well, bully for you. Good on you. Go ahead and be proud of yourself, you smug bastard.
At any rate, it wasn't too long before I realized that the word "bipolar" can mean something besides "living at both the North and South Poles."
Or should he survive to continue to pick out superbly complementary and exquisitely accessorized ensembles for his master another day?
Well, Cubbings lived by one vote. If ever you despaired of your vote mattering to the fate of the Republic, remember this tale. Cubbings lived.
Anyhow.
As faithful readers of this blog--all two of them, one of whom I suspect is my mother--know, I am something of a daredevil, and mighty skilled in the art of delivering a painful and protracted death to the enemies of the Republic we all hold so dear.
I frequently battle ninjas, zombies, Creationists, attack-trained birds of prey, intelligent air-breathing giant squid, supply-side economists, chupacabras, and Bryan Adams (shudder). I've hunted down giant turnip-patch destroying feral hogs, faced off against Rupert Murdoch, fed Sean Hannity to a giant salamander, and hunted down Karl Rove with falcons. Horrifying.
So left to my own devices, naturally I coulda handled homicidal carnivorous flesh-rending bipolar penguins. Piece of cake. Duck soup. Walk in the park. Like taking candy from babies. Honest.
However, saddled as I was by my decidedly non-combative gentleman's gentleman, the slow-witted but loyal Cubbings, I grabbed the nebbish by his collar and, choosing discretion over valor, made a run for it, sure-footed as a mountain-goat, over the rocky terrain of Speck Island.
Cubbings and I scrambled to safety just in time to hear the "Green Galleon Warrior" fire up its engines and sail away from Speck Island, and I began to suspect I'd been had.
Sighing, I passed my flask to Cubbings (generally, I don't waste thirty-year Auld MacBlechaintochan on the help, but Cubbings had had a rough day) and, like the deeply philosophical man I am, reflected on his situation.
Tricked onto a phony expedition by my own children, marooned by a shipful of hippies, and treed like a superbly-accessorized 'possum by hordes of vicious feral carnivorous bipolar penguins, I stared carefully at one of my Cohibas and began to wonder precisely what it is I'd been smoking.
"Cubbings," I said, "if there's one thing I've learned from my children, these deceptively adorable penguins, and my disastrous first marriage to Beyonce, it's this: never trust the cute ones."
We will now leave me and Cubbings for a moment, and return to Palmerwood, where...
Sighing, I passed my flask to Cubbings (generally, I don't waste thirty-year Auld MacBlechaintochan on the help, but Cubbings had had a rough day) and, like the deeply philosophical man I am, reflected on his situation.
Tricked onto a phony expedition by my own children, marooned by a shipful of hippies, and treed like a superbly-accessorized 'possum by hordes of vicious feral carnivorous bipolar penguins, I stared carefully at one of my Cohibas and began to wonder precisely what it is I'd been smoking.
"Cubbings," I said, "if there's one thing I've learned from my children, these deceptively adorable penguins, and my disastrous first marriage to Beyonce, it's this: never trust the cute ones."
***
We will now leave me and Cubbings for a moment, and return to Palmerwood, where...
...the arrival of the newest Palmerlets was imminent. Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. waited patiently in the hallway outside the Ancestral Whelpin' Chamber with Dear Old Nanny Klagg. They weren't happy about it, though.
A moment or two after the whelpin' was complete, the elder children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., were allowed into the nursery to meet the Junior Partners in the Palmerwood nursery.
"Gentlemen, nice to meet you in the flesh," Intrepid Stella A. greeted her newest brothers. "We've met before. Telepathically."
"A pleasure to encounter you both again," Emmanuel J. said, looking around. "The accommodations seem adequate."
"We've had a long trip and I'm not one for small talk," Louis J. interjected. "You mentioned something earlier about tormenting an evil nanny, I believe?
"You'll pardon my associate's terseness," Emmanuel J. said. "He's admirably succinct."
"Well, then, to business," Young Leo J. began. "An abominable hag has taken over our ancestral estate. She makes us wear uncomfortable things and behave. Tragically, our father is blind to the woman's machinations. He's goodhearted, but somewhat dim. You'll meet him before too long, if he returns alive from the island where Stella and I shipped him off."
"We've got an alien device here that an extraterrestrial of our acquaintance said will rid us of the Klagg's presence, with your help," Intrepid Stella A. added. "Show the men, Leo."
The Junior Partners stared with interest at the unearthly box with all its blinky-blinky lights.
"What's it do?" Louis J. asked.
"No idea," Young Leo J. said.
"Is it dangerous?" Emmanuel J. inquired.
"Not sure about that either," Intrepid Stella A. said.
The Junior Partners looked at each other and shrugged.
"Well, what the hell," says Emmanuel J. "We're in," says Louis J. "Press the button."
And the lads, with admirable abandon, proceeded to do just that.
The box began to hum uncannily...
***
Now, I enjoy a good cliffhanger, so we shall leave Palmerwood and the very likely homicidal antics of the children for a moment and return to....
...SPECK ISLAND...
...where I was getting a tad bored, treed, as I was, like a superbly-accessorized 'possum by a pack of ferocious, carnivorous Van Haarpoon's Penguins with naught but my loyal but feeble-minded manservant, Cubbings, and a flask of 30-year Auld MacBlechaintochan for company.
Eventually, the Scotch ran out, and I got desperate to get out of that tree. But necessity, as they say, is the mother of invention. And I'm a resourceful chap. Especially with a nip or two of the Auld MacBlechaintochan in me.
Now, you may know folks who are better-looking than me. You may know people who are more intelligent, more accomplished, more talented, wealthier, more devoted to the Republic which we all hold so dear, and more compassionate to their domestic staff.
I'm not saying that you do. Or that it's likely that you do. But it is possible that you do.
However, I am somewhat confident in my assertion that you do not know anyone who's escaped from a Godforsaken desert island in the middle of the Pacific populated exclusively by rapacious, carnivorous, vicious, voracious penguins with quite the same panache.
My courage and audacity are, of course, beyond question. Nevertheless, I must confess to having been a little apprehensive about crossing the entire breadth of the Pacific on the backs of a few penguins propelled only by their craving for slow-witted but steadfast manservant.
Also, I was out of Scotch and I'd only made it as far as Bora Bora.
However, the gentle benevolence of Divine Providence was sure as hell shining on me today! There! On the horizon! I spied the the sleek and sensuous contours of my very own 120-ft yacht, the "Raconteur"!
"Good God's urge!" I breathed in gratitude to the Infinite. "Why, it appears my devoted staff have come looking for me!"
My eyes teared up, and I toyed fleetingly with the idea of raising their salaries, but I decided against it. I didn't want to cheapen their devotion with something as crass as money.
Dear Old Nanny Klagg was about to lead Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., away from the Infantorium, rasping, "That's enough time with the infants, children. Back to the nursery. We have elocution, deportment, and posture lessons to finish before we have our snack of liver-cookies and prune juice," when a soft and decidedly ominous creeaaaaaak is heard behind them. With a noise of crackling vertebrae, Dear Old Nanny Klagg's head spins around.
There, in the doorway, stood Emmanuel J., his pudgy lil' face eerily devoid of expression. Ever turned around to see a baby standing there, not cooing or gurgling or crying or anything? Just staring at you? It's creepy as hell.
"Good heavens!" Dear Old Nanny Klagg wheezed. "How did this little one get out of his crib?"
Intrepid Stella A. gave the signal and said, in a voice uncannily reminiscent of her old man's, "And so it begins..."
At the time this occurred, I was, of course, on my yacht, the "Raconteur," steaming steadily north, so I wasn't there for this.
However, had I been, it would have been difficult to suppress a spasm of sympathy for the thing I thought was Dear Old Nanny Klagg as it fled through the halls of Palmerwood, hounded by well-nigh uncountable numbers of Palmerlings.
If that thought doesn't chill your very bones, it damn well should.
My children, cloned and uncloned, certain members of my staff, and a selection of my archnemeses--the Intelligent Air-Breathing Giant Squid, the Zombies, and the yetis--all attacked Nanny Klagg as she attempted to flee Palmerwood.
Nanny Klagg, the Terror of Palmerwood, was pretty good at handling individual threats. Combined, however, she's more or less helpless, and, to paraphrase "Tangled Up in Blue," revolution is in the air.
(This is my attempt at what both Marvel Comics and the WWF used to refer to as "The Battle Royale.")
Now, you may know folks who are better-looking than me. You may know people who are more intelligent, more accomplished, more talented, wealthier, more devoted to the Republic which we all hold so dear, and more compassionate to their domestic staff.
I'm not saying that you do. Or that it's likely that you do. But it is possible that you do.
However, I am somewhat confident in my assertion that you do not know anyone who's escaped from a Godforsaken desert island in the middle of the Pacific populated exclusively by rapacious, carnivorous, vicious, voracious penguins with quite the same panache.
My courage and audacity are, of course, beyond question. Nevertheless, I must confess to having been a little apprehensive about crossing the entire breadth of the Pacific on the backs of a few penguins propelled only by their craving for slow-witted but steadfast manservant.
Also, I was out of Scotch and I'd only made it as far as Bora Bora.
However, the gentle benevolence of Divine Providence was sure as hell shining on me today! There! On the horizon! I spied the the sleek and sensuous contours of my very own 120-ft yacht, the "Raconteur"!
"Good God's urge!" I breathed in gratitude to the Infinite. "Why, it appears my devoted staff have come looking for me!"
My eyes teared up, and I toyed fleetingly with the idea of raising their salaries, but I decided against it. I didn't want to cheapen their devotion with something as crass as money.
I clambered on board the "Raconteur," overjoyed at my rescue and at all my devoted staff and friends who'd come to effect it. Why, there was Co-chief of Security Dailey leaning against the railing, chatting with Doctor Pooley, relaxing in a chaise lounge with a Martini. Fellow Kraken Club member Tiger St. Elmo, resplendent in a double-breasted seersucker suit! Co-Chief of Security Miller was grilling burgers, while Fancy-Shmancy Drinksmistress Thornton was pouring another Martini.
Aviation Librarian and Pilot Rhodes and Chief Bard and Meadbrewer Michael J Miller stared in amazement. Even Cap'n Stabbin managed to turn his head slightly.
Aviation Librarian and Pilot Rhodes and Chief Bard and Meadbrewer Michael J Miller stared in amazement. Even Cap'n Stabbin managed to turn his head slightly.
"Well, I'll be darned," I said happily. "All of you came out on the 'Raconteur' to rescue me? I'm sincerely touched."
Rhodes broke the long, stunned silence by clearing his throat and saying, "Yeah... that's what we did."
"Yes, that's why we're all on the yacht," Dr. Pooley added. "To find you. Certainly not to cruise down to Tahiti for a long weekend."
"And we'd never think of commandeering the yacht in your absence to cruise down to Tahiti for a long weekend," interjected Madame de la Thornton. "Never crossed our minds."
"Yes, this certainly isn't the kind of dark, twisted coincidence that could only happen in the bleakest of universes," said Messire Miller.
"Excellent!" I beamed. "Well, now that you've found me, let's turn around and go home. It's been a rotten week."
I couldn't help but notice their eyes welling with tears of joy at the thought of finding me and going back home.
Rhodes broke the long, stunned silence by clearing his throat and saying, "Yeah... that's what we did."
"Yes, that's why we're all on the yacht," Dr. Pooley added. "To find you. Certainly not to cruise down to Tahiti for a long weekend."
"And we'd never think of commandeering the yacht in your absence to cruise down to Tahiti for a long weekend," interjected Madame de la Thornton. "Never crossed our minds."
"Yes, this certainly isn't the kind of dark, twisted coincidence that could only happen in the bleakest of universes," said Messire Miller.
"Excellent!" I beamed. "Well, now that you've found me, let's turn around and go home. It's been a rotten week."
I couldn't help but notice their eyes welling with tears of joy at the thought of finding me and going back home.
Now that I'm once again safely ensconced upon the "Raconteur," I feel we can now once again turn our eyes to the Palmerwood nursery...
...where Emmanuel J. has pushed the button on the mysterious alien device which Xothnarg of Blrk 2645-J told the elder children would rid them of Nanny Klagg.
A tiny "zap" is audible, followed by a low buzzing, a flash of blue light--and suddenly, there are two Emmanuel J.s standing in the lad's hand-carved burled-oak crib.
...where Emmanuel J. has pushed the button on the mysterious alien device which Xothnarg of Blrk 2645-J told the elder children would rid them of Nanny Klagg.
A tiny "zap" is audible, followed by a low buzzing, a flash of blue light--and suddenly, there are two Emmanuel J.s standing in the lad's hand-carved burled-oak crib.
"Good God's urge!" Intrepid Stella A. gasps. "It appears that our extraterrestrial acquaintance has given us the ability to replicate ourselves! There will soon be uncountable swarms of Palmerlings as far as the eye can see!"
"There already are," Young Leo J. says. "There are four of us."
"Five," says the second Emmanuel J. "But you might want to act quickly. We replicate Palmerlings are only temporary."
"What are you waiting for?" demands Louis J. "Hand the damn thing over. My turn."
"There already are," Young Leo J. says. "There are four of us."
"Five," says the second Emmanuel J. "But you might want to act quickly. We replicate Palmerlings are only temporary."
"What are you waiting for?" demands Louis J. "Hand the damn thing over. My turn."
Dear Old Nanny Klagg was about to lead Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., away from the Infantorium, rasping, "That's enough time with the infants, children. Back to the nursery. We have elocution, deportment, and posture lessons to finish before we have our snack of liver-cookies and prune juice," when a soft and decidedly ominous creeaaaaaak is heard behind them. With a noise of crackling vertebrae, Dear Old Nanny Klagg's head spins around.
There, in the doorway, stood Emmanuel J., his pudgy lil' face eerily devoid of expression. Ever turned around to see a baby standing there, not cooing or gurgling or crying or anything? Just staring at you? It's creepy as hell.
"Good heavens!" Dear Old Nanny Klagg wheezed. "How did this little one get out of his crib?"
Intrepid Stella A. gave the signal and said, in a voice uncannily reminiscent of her old man's, "And so it begins..."
Dear Old Nanny Klagg found herself in a tight spot, her eyes widening as replica after replica of the Junior Partners, Emmanuel J. and Louis J., come silently filing out of the Palmerwood Infantorium and gaze at her with that eerily blank stare. You ever found yourself facing down well-nigh uncountable numbers of Palmer children on your own? Well, it's made stronger men than YOU shudder and cry and go fetal.
"Well, well, well," Dear Old Nanny Klagg creaks, "some little dears seem to have gotten their hands on self-replicating alien technology, haven't they? That's very naughty, children. Very naughty indeed. And we know what happens to naughty children, don't we?"
And so began the Battle of Palmerwood.
"Well, well, well," Dear Old Nanny Klagg creaks, "some little dears seem to have gotten their hands on self-replicating alien technology, haven't they? That's very naughty, children. Very naughty indeed. And we know what happens to naughty children, don't we?"
And so began the Battle of Palmerwood.
Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. weren't particularly surprised at Dear Old Nanny Klagg's transformation into something not particularly dear or nanny-like. They sort of suspected it all along. As, minions, I'm pretty sure you did too. Big shock.
They were, however, a bit taken aback by the army of Emmanuel J. and Louis J. clones taking to the air and descending upon Dear Old Nanny Klagg like a flock of tiny, vicious, velvet smoking jacket-clad raptors.
They were, however, a bit taken aback by the army of Emmanuel J. and Louis J. clones taking to the air and descending upon Dear Old Nanny Klagg like a flock of tiny, vicious, velvet smoking jacket-clad raptors.
At the time this occurred, I was, of course, on my yacht, the "Raconteur," steaming steadily north, so I wasn't there for this.
However, had I been, it would have been difficult to suppress a spasm of sympathy for the thing I thought was Dear Old Nanny Klagg as it fled through the halls of Palmerwood, hounded by well-nigh uncountable numbers of Palmerlings.
If that thought doesn't chill your very bones, it damn well should.
My children, cloned and uncloned, certain members of my staff, and a selection of my archnemeses--the Intelligent Air-Breathing Giant Squid, the Zombies, and the yetis--all attacked Nanny Klagg as she attempted to flee Palmerwood.
Nanny Klagg, the Terror of Palmerwood, was pretty good at handling individual threats. Combined, however, she's more or less helpless, and, to paraphrase "Tangled Up in Blue," revolution is in the air.
(This is my attempt at what both Marvel Comics and the WWF used to refer to as "The Battle Royale.")
The children, staff members, and selected archnemeses watched happily as Nanny Klagg flaps off, pursued by some of the denizens of the Palmerwood Falcon-Mews. A thoughtful silence fell as they reflected on the lessons of the recent events.
It's amazing what happens when people--and other things--unite against a common foe. Once the yetis stopped obsessively tweeting #yetifurmatters, once the zombies put down their "Undead Rights Now" placards, once the Intelligent Air-Breathing Giant Squid stopped arguing with Bechamel de Bouillabaisse over whether mollusk rights outweighed his Constitutional rights to make calamari, once Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. quit squabbling over who borrowed whose harpoon gun without asking, they were able to band together against a much greater evil.
In other words, when solidarity triumphs over self-interest, real and lasting change occurs.
There's probably a lesson here, but darned if I can see it.
It's amazing what happens when people--and other things--unite against a common foe. Once the yetis stopped obsessively tweeting #yetifurmatters, once the zombies put down their "Undead Rights Now" placards, once the Intelligent Air-Breathing Giant Squid stopped arguing with Bechamel de Bouillabaisse over whether mollusk rights outweighed his Constitutional rights to make calamari, once Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. quit squabbling over who borrowed whose harpoon gun without asking, they were able to band together against a much greater evil.
In other words, when solidarity triumphs over self-interest, real and lasting change occurs.
There's probably a lesson here, but darned if I can see it.
Well, I'd had a heck of a time. Shnookered away from my home by a famous explorer, Sir Rodger Shagges-Bummeswell, host of "Animal Planet--After Dark!" who turned out to be working for his elder children; stuck on a filthy freighter with no bar and no casino with a bunch of braless, unshaven, patchouli-soaked hippies; marooned on a desert island crawling with feral, carnivorous, bipolar penguins and forced to use my feeble-minded but devoted manservant, Cubbings, as penguin-bait; and by the time my crew of fearless Minions finally rescued me, they'd already sucked down all the good liquor.
But I finally arrived, safe and sound, back home at Palmerwood.
"Children! Daddy's home!" I announced delightedly as I strode through the front doors. "Daddy's very cross at your little trick. But Cubbings didn't get eaten, all's well that ends well, so I won't punish you. What have you two been up to?"
"Nothing much," Intrepid Stella A. shrugged. "The twins were born. We did our summer reading lists. Got our tote-bags from the library. Oh, and Nanny Klagg quit."
"Precisely who is this person?" Emmanuel J. asked.
"That's Dad," Young Leo J. said.
"He seems a bit dim," Louis J. observed.
"I've met sharper," Young Leo J. agreed.
"Well, they look like fine lads!" I kvelled, with pardonable paternal pride. "I hope you complimented your mother on a fine new litter of Palmerlets. Let's get these little chaps properly clipped."
"Children! Daddy's home!" I announced delightedly as I strode through the front doors. "Daddy's very cross at your little trick. But Cubbings didn't get eaten, all's well that ends well, so I won't punish you. What have you two been up to?"
"Nothing much," Intrepid Stella A. shrugged. "The twins were born. We did our summer reading lists. Got our tote-bags from the library. Oh, and Nanny Klagg quit."
"Precisely who is this person?" Emmanuel J. asked.
"That's Dad," Young Leo J. said.
"He seems a bit dim," Louis J. observed.
"I've met sharper," Young Leo J. agreed.
"Well, they look like fine lads!" I kvelled, with pardonable paternal pride. "I hope you complimented your mother on a fine new litter of Palmerlets. Let's get these little chaps properly clipped."
After the clippin', I was pleased to invite the good clergyman to partake of the Palmerwood Lunch Buffet. "Try the bird, Rabbi," I said. "Had it flown in from Speck Island just recently. What's that? Oh, sure, I'm sure it's kosher. Pretty sure. Like 99% sure. Might taste a little fishy, though."
