Well, minions, no one can deny it's been a rough couple of years. The 'Rona, incipient fascism, an attack on the Capitol of the United States of America... yes, we live in trying times.
Which is why I felt it especially incumbent upon myself to host an event which is a Palmerwood tradition dating back... oh, I can't rightly say, but some centuries, at least... to raise the morale of my fellow filthy-rich oligarchs. Even those for whom I don't particularly care. There must be solidarity among the .00001%ers. The ravening working-class hordes are at the gate, so to speak, and it's important we keep up a united front.
And so it was that I made preparations for... THE PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT of 2021.
Here's a shot of me completing the review of my rugged yet luxurious-to-the-point-of- decadence Millam Hunting-Lodge (named for my old pal, the sinister and shadowy railroad magnate, Darren Millam) in preparation for the PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT of 2021. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. It takes a lot to get a jaded gazillionaire giddy with glee, but this does the trick.
"Looks swell," I said with satisfaction, turning to my gamekeeper, Olivier de Baliviere and estate physician Pooley. "Trophies of dead animals dusted, firearms ammo'ed up, plenty of Bactine in the medicine cabinet, fresh sheets on all the beds, adequate stash of fire-wood, kitchen stocked, guest tweeds pressed, and all the missing liquor replaced. Wonder whose leather appointment-book with the initials EFB under the couch that was. Wonder if there's a connection between it and the missing liquor. Well, top-drawer work. I can hardly wait until the guests arrive. It's gonna be the best Palmerwood Great Hunt EVER!!!!"
Head Estate Physician Pooley looked doubtful, and Gamekeeper De Baliviere looked frankly terrified, but I was so darn chipper I hardly noticed.
"BLAM BANG BLAM," I squealed like a delighted six-year-old. "BANG BOOM BLAM BANG BANG RATTATATATTATATATT."
"Oh God," groaned Pooley in agony. "He's making gun-noises."
And what's pulling into the station? Why, it's a lovingly restored vintage 19th-century locomotive pulling the "Wayward Son," the private rail-car of JP's old pal, the saturnine and secretive railway magnate Darren Millam! This is gonna be some hunt!
"Howdy!" I chirped. "Ignore the gloomy faces on my gamekeeper, Olivier de Baliviere, Head Estate Physician Pooley and my feeble-minded but devoted manservant Cubbings! Let's get this shootin' match underway!"
I chuckled somewhat patriarchally at the mountain of luggage they've shlepped along with them. Girls will be girls. Luckily, Cubbings is in fighting fettle, as always.
I was less delighted to see the delightful Mrs. Lindsey's sweater--I'd thought it consigned to the flames years ago--but, ghastly cardigan or no, he's still delighted to see her.
[On a related wardrobe note: I made a sacred and unbreakable vow years before never to draw Mrs. Thornton in anything but a bikini. I apologize for it, but sacred vows are sacred vows, and I don't feel like testing the malevolent demonic beings in whose unspeakable names I made those vows. But in deference to the season, I've thoughtfully drawn her in a tweed bikini. One does what one can.]
"What are those pet carrying-cages, Messire Williams?" I asked. "Did you bring animals with you?"
"Nope," Williams says. "Hoping to bring a few back."
And there, pulling up in one of the estate-jeeps, are the Palmerwood Security Detail, the homicidal maniacs Miller and Dailey. It's said the devil lives in the details, and if those chaps don't prove that adage, JP doesn't know what does.
Doctor Pooley, meanwhile, seems to be down to the dregs of his fourth bottle of Montrachet Grand Cru '12 since lunch. The poor fella just can't get into the spirit of things.
"Look, Doctor," I said reasonably, "if you just assume ahead of time limbs will be lost, you'll enjoy the hunt a lot more. Works for me every year!"
I was less pleased to see that Madame de la Sieckmann has joined the hunt as Official Photographer. Some occurrences on past Great Hunts have been better left unphotographed.
And I was REALLY worried about seeing Messire Brad Sisk show up. For one thing, Il Signore Sisk has, on more than one occasion, threatened to pants me for wearing pleats. For another, Signore Sisk, a professional opera singer, appears to have brought along the entire score of "Rigoletto." I wasn't sure how the vast and dangerous Pleistocene beasts of North Palmerwood will react to opera.
And while I'm always happy to see his old pal Messire Paul Mopps, I saw with some trepidation that Messire Mopps had, in fact, brought along his cats, as threatened.
(It did not escape my eagle-eye that Madame de la Frank von Bensky is trying to sneak in like she just arrived, when I know full well she's been camping out in the lodge and cadging the good liquor since October. But I'm far too discreet to say anything).
Avanti! Gonna be some hunt this time around!
Dispatches from the Field, Palmerwood Great Hunt of 2021, Day #1:
"The weather in the Midwest being rather capricious, we were unprepared for a squallish nor'-nor'-wester of a blizzard. Messire Whipple rather touchingly but ineffectively attempted to stave off the blast with his umbrella. The only members of the expedition to enjoy themselves were two Yetis (Clive and Stewart, I believe, although all the bounders look alike to me). One of them--Clive or maybe Phil, not sure--thwacked Palmerwood Crack Security Detail Member Miller but good in the gourd with a snowball. Miller, incensed, wanted to shoot him in in retribution, and it was all I could do to convince him not to and save us the embarrassment of an international incident.
"Meanwhile, Docteur Pooley is muttering imprecations from under his snowy sarcophagus that sound suspiciously like 'Monsieur le Grand Batard de Marquis de Palmerwood,' and our party seems to have become separated in the driving snow. Things begin to look... less than optimal."
Dispatches from the field, Palmerwood Great Hunt 2021, Day 1.5:
"While some of our party endure blizzard conditions, we hear that other factions fare equally poorly. In the southern reaches of the Northwest Quadrant, Il Signore Sisk, we are informed, decided that now was a perfect time to belt out the Overture to 'Die Zauberflote.' Apparently, no one informed him of the effect that Mozart has on Pleistocene megafauna, and now the mastodons are impassioned. Or maybe the mammoths. I can never keep them straight. They all look alike to me.
"Meanwhile, rations run low and I am reduced to recycling sight-gags from the last Great Hunt, viz. Security Palmerwood Security Detail member Dailey being carried off by a Harpy Eagle (I'm sure he'll be okay), Hoberman clinging for dear life to some critter's appendage, and Rupert Murdoch being stomped to smithereens by a large animal.
"While there is supposed to be a certain esprit de corps among us members of the .00001%, I must admit, I do take some small satisfaction in the latter."
Dispatches from the Field, Palmerwood Great Hunt 2021, Day #2:
"Well, that was an interesting day. We surprised a small herd of Woolly Hippopomplemousse grazing in the tall grass. A notably bellicose species, one of them took great exception to Mrs. Lindsey ‘scardigan sweater, and, enraged, charged her (bowling me over in the process). Mrs. Lindsey was forced to relinquish the ghastly thing.
"The valiant-souled Messire Beaty immediately shouldered his trusty rocket-launcher, intending to blast the offending hippopomplemousse into next week, but the withered old reptile Rupert Murdoch was in the way and took the rocket square to the kisser. Tragically, but for a thick coating of soot, he appears unharmed. Messire Beaty assures me it was an accident, and I for one believe him, sorta. Not really.
"Meanwhile, a mammoth or mastodon or mastitis or whatever it is continues to chase Il Signore Sisk across the northern reaches of the Estate, which are now littered with libretti from Verdi to Rossetti--oohhhh, that's a clever rhyme I'll have to work into something or other later on down the pike--and we still haven't seen hide nor hair of Crack Security Detail Officer Dailey for a while."
Dispatches from the Field, Palmerwood Great Hunt 2021:
"Exciting news from the as-yet un-blizzarded southern borderlands of the northern reaches of the Estate! Renowned herpetologist Williams informs us he's found that rarest of all species, the Woolly Arctic Snapping-Turtle (megachelonys hirsuticus frigidii). My old pal Mcginnis, I'm told, has unearthed a lair of Great Northern Chupacabras and will soon put paid to the pesky beasts. I certainly hope someone told him that the northern variant of this particular strain of varmint is somewhat larger than the Arizona specimens he's used to. And my fellow oligarch, the sinister and saturnine railway-magnate and Beloved Character of Western Folklore Darren Millam, is engaging in staring-contests with sabre-toothed cats. By all accounts, he's doing well.
"Meanwhile, Official Great Hunt Photographer Sieckmann is beginning to have grave doubts about wildlife photography and is contemplating going back to taking pictures of flowers."
"Great Zounds, what a day! Madame de la Butler Koontz ran across a Palmerwood Climbing Orchid (plantus horribilus palmerensis) and decided she'd be cute and pluck the thing. Some unpleasantness ensued. Madame Eve Bensky attempted heroically, if unsuccessfully, to intervene. My doughty groundskeeper, Olivier de Baliviere, came dashing up with a pair of garden-shears, but only succeeded in chopping off half his beard, the dumb nebbish.
"I dread to think of what might have happened if Mrs. Stafford-Thornton hadn't leapt, Xena-Warrior-Princess-like, into the fray with her combination katana-morning star things. Where she conceals them in that tweed bikini of hers I haven't a clue, and I daren't ask. As Walter Bagehot said of the Windsors, 'We must not let in daylight upon magic.'
"I worry for Doctor Pooley.When I mentioned that Mrs. Koontz was in some difficulty vis-a-vis a plant, he muttered in a sort of slurring fashion, 'Just rub some Calamine on it.' And Mrs. Sieckmann, who quit wildlife photography for botanical photography, is now questioning that decision as well.
"Meanwhile, the distant trumpeting of mammoths or mastodons or whatever is heard from the foothills, and we still can't seem to find Crack Security Detail Officer Dailey, but I'm sure he's fine."
Dispatches from the Field, Palmerwood Great Hunt 2021, Day Whatever It Is Because He Stopped Counting:
"Messire Mopps inadvertently set in motion a chain of events which could have been disastrous. He attempted to cuddle a Woolly Rhinoceros (his excuse being, 'I miss my cats'), and naturally, the thing flipped him onto its back and went berserk, trampling poor Rupert Murdoch.
"Two members of the Hunt sprang into quick action: Messire Hoberman grabbed it by the horn and was spun around like a rag doll. Not sure what he was attempting to do, but good God's urge, it sure looked heroic.
"Messire Whipple grabbed an AK-47 and attempted to perforate the damned rhino. He's a fine mathlete, he ain't no marksman. A hail of bullets sang through the air, narrowly missing everything except a Harpy Eagle, which, unbeknownst to us, had been carrying Crack Security Detail Officer Dailey around for well nigh on to a week now. The thing squawked its last and expired in mid-air, and Dailey went plummeting some 100 feet to the earth, bounced a few times, and then stood up somewhat shakily and announced, 'I'm okay! I'm okay! Just need to walk it off!' The man's a real trouper."
"Well, I think it's no reflection on our party's outdoorsmanship to say that we've encountered a spate of ill-luck.
"We ran into a small flock of Dinornis, more commonly known as 'Terror Birds': an apt description if ever I heard it. One of them attempted to swallow Mr. Mopps. Came mighty close, too. Another decided I was a toothsome morsel, and no doubt I should have been devoured, had it not been for Mr. Hoberman's and Mr. Beaty's spirited defense.
"Meanwhile, Mr. Williams Sr. ‘s attempts to commune with the Arctic Snapping Turtle are not proceeding quite as smoothly as that eminent herpetologist might have wished, and Mr. Mcginnis’s battles with the Northern Chupacabra have presented their own challenges.
"All told... not our finest hour in the Great Outdoors."
