Summer Break.

Who on earth, I can hear you asking, in his or her right mind would ever want to leave Palmerwood? Isn't living in this sprawling, rambling, super-luxurious, deeply historic country estate located in the gently rolling hills of suburban St. Louis like being on vacation all the time?

Well, yeah, sure it is. But even Palmerwood, the garden-spot of the Midwest and the epicenter of everything interesting that goes on in our benighted region, is none the worse for a change of scenery. And so, every so often, the Palmers of Palmerwood decamp for more tropical climes--places where palm trees and heliconias replace pin oaks and pine trees on the horizon, where sand replaces loam between our toes, and where soft Island accents replace the broad, flat tones of our native Heartland region.

The children were so excited! They simply couldn't WAIT to get the hell out of Dodge, and had their Lil' Louie (the junior line of Louis Vuitton) luggage packed before you could say Rock Jabinson. However, inasmuch as I am attempting to raise responsible young'uns who will, someday, shoulder their hereditary responsibilities with the noblesse oblige of those of our exalted station, I informed the lil' poppets that, prior to dashing off to the land of sun, sand, and surf, some chores needed to be done.

First, a bit of housekeeping. A few pesky zombies had managed to worm their way inside the estate's perimeter--no doubt helped by the fact that they are themselves somewhat wormy--and once you get one, then the whole bunch follows. Can't come home to a luxurious, historic country estate overrun by the Undead.



And then a quick check on some of the livestock before we go. Now, I'm the last fella on earth to get his incredibly expensive, super-luxurious, 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton boxers in a bunch over GMOs and organic yadda yadda, but I will cop to being a little dubious about the long-term effects of Monsanto's new "Yum Yum Chicken Chow."

However, we left with full confidence in the ability of our doughty and redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver DeBaliviere, to handle any exigency that might arise in our absence.

And then we were off!



The children have always been appreciative of the wonders of the natural world, both above and below the waves. Here are the little Palmerlets doing a bit of spear-fishing and scuba-diving.

The scuba tanks and spears were a gift from Grandmere. How the old dear dotes on those imps. "Now, you little pishers get to the ocean floor and don't come back without a species previously unknown to science, and preferably quite dangerous!" she exhorted them. "Grandmere will have the help procure a lovely selection of petit-fours for when you get back."

The Palmerkins are independent little beasties, and on their own precious lil' initiative, tackled a wide range of Salt Life activities, like catamaraning...



...and Intrepid Stella A. even mastered a somewhat arcane maritime pursuit known as "shark-surfing." That child sure loves her animals. And what a way she has with them!



But all good things, like vacations, must come to an end, tragically. As we watched the sun set over the crystal-clear, azure-blue waters of our magnificent private Caribbean cay, our thoughts turned to home. Tomorrow, we'd board our private hovercraft, which our captain, Cap'n Stabbin (if he could be bothered to leave his cabin--what he's always doing in there I simply don't know and don't care to guess) would pilot north--around the Keys, through the Gulf of Mexico, and then up the Mississippi until reaching Palm's Landing on Palmer Creek.

Good-bye, ocean. We'll think of you often as the Palmerlets return to school, the leaves begin to turn, the days begin to shorten, and autumn, Satan's own season, descends upon the Midwest.

Protecting Missouri's Children--The Rick Brattin Saga.

Missouri, the state of my birth, my residence, and the location of my sprawling, historic, luxurious, and unfortunately-named country estate of Palmerwood, is one of those states where pro-Creationist legislation is currently pending.

Like any number of other state legislators proudly representing districts across the South and Midwest, a few of Missouri's lawmakers apparently didn't get the memo that the issue of whether or not to teach Creationism in public schools was effectively settled in 1925 in Dayton, TN, when John Scopes, represented by Clarence Darrow, won a case prosecuted by William Jennings Bryan. No, these brave holdouts, these proud anachronisms, continue to push forcefully for "equal time" to teach religious mythology alongside accepted science in schools funded by your tax dollars.

The charge in Missouri appears to be led by one RICK BRATTIN, Republican from District 55. And here he is.

Mr. Brattin is a real piece of work ( I mean that in the most complimentary sense possible) who's sponsored quite a lot of interesting legislation, including:

* HB1470, which allows a judge to sentence someone to death by firing squad;
* HB1648, which mandates that all Missouri judges and elected representatives be drug tested; and
* HCR 53, which  strongly urges the United States Congress to continue investigating the September 11, 2012, terrorist attacks on our consulate in Benghazi, Libya.

Which should give you an idea of what end of the political spectrum Rep. Brattin is.

By the way, if you'd like to contact him, here's a link to his official website. And if you'd like to contact him directly, here's his office phone number: 573-751-3783. And click here to send him an email. 

But Rep. Brattin's proposed legislation that I find the most interesting, however, are HB 1472, which "Requires schools teaching the theory of evolution by natural selection to have a policy on parental notification and a mechanism for opting out of such instruction," which means that if a kid's parents don't believe in evolution, their kid can opt out of it, and  HB 1587, which Requires the State Board of Education and other public school entities to encourage students to explore scientific questions and to assist teaching of scientific theories of biological or chemical evolution.

Which would sound more or less kosher until you read the bill itself, which says, "Neither the state board of education, nor any public elementary or secondary school governing authority, superintendent of schools, or school system administrator, nor any public elementary or se condary school principal or administrator shall prohibit any  teacher in a public school system of this state from helping students understand, analyze, critique, and review in an objective manner the scientific strengths and scientific weaknesses of biological or chemical evolution whenever these subjects are taught within the course curriculum schedule."

Which means that if a teacher wishes to teach Creationism--or, as it's now being called, "Intelligent Design," otherwise known as the "God of the Gaps" theory (if we can't explain it, yet, then it's clear God did it), it would be illegal to stop 'em doing it.

Naturally, as a Missouri father, I'm all in favor of anything that protects our kiddies. And as viewers of this blog will know, one of my primary concerns is keeping the lil' pishers safe from Yeti attacks.

Matter of fact, I was so encouraged by both Rep. Brattin's concern for the safety of Missouri's schoolchildren and by his openmindedness concerning legends and folklore that I wrote him a letter. Which is below.

Representative Rick Brattin
MO House of Representatives
201 West Capitol Avenue
Room 114C
Jefferson City, MO 65101                                                                                                                                                                                                                           July 9, 2014


Dear Representative Brattin, 

What a shame it is I don’t live in a district which you represent! You, sir, as a true American patriot and a defender of all the values that we REAL Americans hold so dear, are on the front lines of defending Missouri from liberals, atheists, secular humanists, Communists, abortionists, and other Democrats. Even a quick look at some of the bills you’ve either sponsored or co-sponsored clearly illustrates your values, your steadfast dedication to the American way, and your true commitment to the ideals of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

HJR61, for example, “Proposes a constitutional amendment on the right to bear arms and to possess and purchase ammunition and parts for such arms”! Can I get an “AMEN”? Considering what’s happening in Washington, clearly Missouri NEEDS its own Amendment safeguarding our right to bear arms and buy all the ammo and parts.

Or there’s HB 1471, which “Requires all inmates receiving an on-site non-emergency medical examination or treatment from correctional center personnel to be charged fifty cents per visit.” Charge inmates for medical care? Darn skippy. That’ll teach ‘em. 

Or HB 1649, which “Modifies provisions related to the tort liability associated with the concealed carry of firearms.” God bless you, sir! I don’t see why we should be indemnified for anything that could possibly go wrong when we’re peaceably exercising our Second Amendment Constitutional Rights! 

But the one that REALLY set my patriotic/Christian values all a-flutter was HB 1472, which “Requires schools teaching the theory of evolution by natural selection to have a policy on parental notification and a mechanism for opting out of such instruction.” Let them opt out of learning science if it contradicts their religious beliefs? Amen to THAT. 

And I couldn’t help but notice that HB 1649 comes on the heels of HB 1587, which “Requires the State Board of Education and other public school entities to encourage students to explore scientific questions and to assist teaching of scientific theories of biological or chemical evolution.” 

Now, that one did raise my eyebrows a little. You, sir, introduced a bill which encourages students to explore scientific questions? I was shocked because, as you know, encouraging students to explore scientific questions can lead to Secular Humanism, atheism, and homosexuality. 

But then I read the bill and it all made sense. Section 2 says, “Neither the state board of education, nor any public elementary or secondary school governing authority, superintendent of schools, or school system administrator, nor any public elementary or secondary school principal or administrator shall prohibit any teacher in a public school system of this state from helping students understand, analyze, critique, and review in an objective manner the scientific strengths and scientific weaknesses of biological or chemical evolution whenever these subjects are taught within the course curriculum schedule.”

And I realized that you want to make it illegal for anyone to interfere with a teacher who wants to teach Creationism. Got it.

Since you, Representative Brattin, have proven to be a staunch protector of Missouri’s schoolchildren from the evils of Secular Humanism, I figured you’d be the perfect elected official to write to in regard to another dire threat to our state’s schoolchildren’s well-being. And that threat is yetis.

For many years, I’ve been warning people about the threat posed by these hideous, shaggy hominids. The threat is obvious. They’re big, powerful, vicious beasts with great big teeth and the strength of many men. Just to prove my point, here’s a photograph of their footprints which I found on the internets:

We can infer, from this footprint, that they are really big. And if they’re that big, then they’re very powerful. And if they’re that powerful, they’re dangerous. And if they’re dangerous, then our Missouri schoolchildren need to be protected from them. This is only common sense.

I’ve been tireless in my advocacy of yeti preparedness, but to no avail. People simply won’t listen. I’ve been told that protecting Missouri schoolchildren from yetis is a complete and utter waste of time, because there’s no conclusive proof of their existence (in spite of the footprints), that all the available evidence is contradicted by almost every branch of science and common sense, and that you’d have to be a complete idiot to believe in them. Well, you could say the EXACT SAME THING about Creationism! In support of both of our causes, permit me to quote from a recent article about yetis I found on the internets: 

 
If populations of yetis — like Bigfoot — really exist, they have somehow managed to avoid leaving any physical traces of their presence: no bodies, bones, teeth, hair, scat, or anything else. Of course, just because these creatures have never been found is not conclusive proof that they don't exist. All new evidence should be carefully and scientifically analyzed. (Benjamin Radford, “Russians Claim ‘Indisputable Proof’ of Yeti”, LiveScience.com, Oct. 2011). 

Well, I couldn’t agree more, could you? The fact that no evidence exists for it is NOT CONCLUSIVE PROOF that it’s not real, that it shouldn’t be carefully and scientifically analyzed—and that it shouldn’t be taught in our schools!

Since we agree on that, I thought you’d be the perfect person to introduce a YETI PREPARATION INSTRUCTION BILL in the General Assembly. Please do so at the very next session. Our schoolchildren are too precious to allow them to be vulnerable to attacks by yetis. I’d like the bill to mandate the following: 

1. That our children are taught to recognize yetis when they see, hear, or smell them.

2. That our children be trained in proper firearm use to wound or kill yetis when they attack.
3. That a trained Yeti Specialist be retained by every school in Missouri (to be maintained at the district’s expense) in case of a yeti attack.
4. That materials used to teach our precious schoolchildren yeti preparedness be reviewed annually to assure that methodology is in line with the most current advances in science. 

I stand at the ready to assist you in preparing and presenting this bill to the Missouri House of Representatives. For many years, I’ve been assiduously collecting evidence of their existence, and I’d be happy to share the results of my research with you if it would help make the case for your Yeti Preparedness Bill. Please get back to me at your earliest convenience and let me know how the bill is progressing. 

Sincerely, your proud fellow Missourian,

James Palmer
And because I'm a helpful chap, I've been hard at work on a series of YETI AWARENESS POSTERS to raise awareness and concern about yeti attacks.

And this one...





























The struggle to keep our children safe from the depredations of yetis, secular humanism, and scabies never ends, friends. It... never... ends.

Staving Off the Doldrums

The tiny Palmerlet poppets, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., have, like so many American children, a disturbing tendency to fall into the summer screen doldrums. Those of us who have reached the point in our lives where mortality seems less an abstract concept than an inevitable and disturbingly rapidly approaching event are frequently bemused and frustrated by this.

I reached boiling point the other day after I heard the "Adventure Time" theme music playing for what must have been the 27th time that day. Enough was enough. Action, I decided, must be taken.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE," I shouted, throwing down my pipe, my snifter of 137 year-old brandy, and my leather-bound, gold-embossed, 15th century copy of "The Decameron" (and I'd just reached a good part, too) and stomping into the nursery, "TURN OFF THAT IPOD. AND THAT IPAD. AND THE COMPUTER. AND THE WII. AND THE NETFLIX. AND EVERY OTHER FLICKERING IMAGE ON A FLAT SCREEN. GO OUTSIDE. GET SUNLIGHT. GET FRESH AIR. IT'S SUMMER, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. NO ONE EVER SAID TO THEMSELVES, 'GOSH, WISH I'D SPENT A LITTLE MORE TIME PLAYING "ANGRY BIRDS" IN JULY' IN THE MIDDLE OF FEBRUARY. GO."

Well! I'm pleased to report that the Palmerlings heeded my gently-offered advice. Out they got. I hadn't quite expected that they'd put the inhabitants of the falcon-mews to quite the use that they did, but at least they're outside and active.

Even during rainy days, there's no reason to sit around like a pancake in front of flickering images. I've encouraged the tiny Palmerkins to use all the boundless energy and ingenuity of childhood to keep themselves amused when weather necessitates staying indoors. I'm pleased to report my efforts have been successful.

"Mens sana in corpore sano," as Juvenal said, "A healthy mind in a healthy body." Take a page from the small Palmerels' book, minions, and so long as the good Lord grants us health and mobility--stay active!

The Consequences of Sleep Deprivation.

Fatherhood is a rewarding, but a sometimes slightly dicey, proposition. We paterfamiliae are vested with a truly awesome amount of responsibility.

Which, sometimes, we do not do justice.

During a recent sleepless night--not an uncommon occurrence in paternity--I had occasion to retire to the scullery for a cup of tea. The young Palmerlets were restless as well, and, in my sleep-deprived haze, I thought that perhaps some milk and cookies might well return them to Slumberland.

However, I realized--too late--that, quelle horreur, I'd broken one of the cardinal rules of parenthood: never feed the lil' sprouts after midnight. Any devotee of 80's era movies knows this.

The resulting chaos was handled by a quick trip to the pediatrician in the morning, but lesson learned...

The Ancient and Noble Sport of Falconry

Some say horseracing is the sport of kings. I personally find that to be malarkey. I've been to too many racetracks crawling with touts wearing loudly-patterned polyester sport coats to find anything regal about that pursuit. No, my preference is for falconry.

There really is nothing like launching a raptor, God's own airborne killing-machines, from your wrist, watching it soar majestically through the great blue, thrilling to the dive, and then watching it rip a varmint into strips of jerky.

I remember fondly the days when my father, eschewing more mundane father-son bonding activities like throwing a baseball around and fishing, took me out into the hills with vicious birds of prey and taught me the fine art of letting a creature more efficiently evolved for the purpose do your killing for you. Hawks. The hit men of the animal world.

And of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't introduce my children to the practice. Here's a snapshot of my daughter on Day One of Falconry.


The more cynical among you may scoff at the idea of introducing children to falconry by using parakeets, but as the Confucians say, "The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step."

Also, these are a particularly vicious, feral, and carnivorous subspecies of parakeet.

Well, it wasn't long before the kiddies were ready for the real thing. Here's a snapshot of the lil' poppets and their old man out on the windswept glens of Palmerwood's northern reaches, preparing to hunt with airborne predators. I prefer the traditional Saker falcon; Intrepid Stella A. favors her Harpy Eagle, and Young Leo J. likes... well, we're not exactly sure what it is, but it followed him home one day and he begged to keep it. They've formed quite a bond, Young Leo J. and his... whatever it is.

Sharp-eyed minions will notice the exquisite cut of our matching family hunting-tweeds, tailored expressly for us by MacGlanhorbernathyghannitie & Sons of Edinburgh.

And you'll pardon a proud papa's kvelling, I'm sure, but I just couldn't have been more pleased at the children's success on their first day of falconry. Why, they already managed to rid Palmerwood of two particularly dangerous varmints: Intrepid Stella A.'s Harpy Eagle snared Karl Rove's gelatinous presence in its talons, and Young Leo J.'s... whatever it is nabbed a squirming, writhing David Koch, one half of the nefarious, democracy-undermining Koch Brothers!

"Good God's Urge, Daddy," Intrepid Stella A. whispered, horrorstruck, "do we really have varmints that horrifying lurking around our magnificent, historic, sumptuous yet unfortunately-named country estate?"

"Not any more," I comforted her with satisfaction. "Not any more, thanks to the birds. Or the...well, whatever it is that your brother likes to hunt with."

After we disinfected the birds' talons (risk of fungal infection, you know, from having touched something so unclean), a friend of mine pointed out that David Koch's anal musk-glands would probably fetch a pretty penny from practitioners of Chinese folk remedies. He made an excellent point, so I had my gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, remove them. Without anesthesia. The sound of the procedure was magical.

Once Mr. Koch's anal musk-glands had been removed for sale in the markets of Shanghai, I had Mr. de Baliviere chop up the day's catch and throw it to my herd of prize polled pedigreed Eurasian wild boars.

Don't fret, friends... I had it done humanely.

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.