"Palmerwood: The St. Herod's Years." A Chronicle of JP's School-Days.

God knows obtaining a superb education for one's offspring is key to maintaining a dynasty. History is littered with the remains of once-promising dynasties--the Hapsburgs, the Bourbons, the Windsors, etc.--who fell prey to the twin evils that plague hereditary aristocracies: idiocy and inbreeding.

Well. We Palmers of Palmerwood know enough to learn from the lessons of history, and so it was with all the best intentions in the world that I enrolled my younger sons, the Junior Partners, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., at The Quimm School.

It was highly recommended, but doing so was not the wisest move.

The Quimm School is a private, "progressive" day school run by a bunch of vegetable juice-drinking old virgins of questionable gender. Students don't learn, they "explore." They aren't disciplined, they're "refocused." They don't compete, they "cooperate." They don't have teachers, they have "guides."

Now, I had my doubts about the whole damned enterprise, but when Agreeable Louis J. sniped, "Pop, are you sure your hatred for Hillary isn't the result of your misogynistic, patriarchal tendencies? Guide Ratchett says you have those," I blew my stack, and I immediately and furiously withdrew the lads from The Quimm School.

The lads turned one on April 1, and I took the opportunity to pack those rapscallions off to boarding school. Specifically, my alma mater, St. Herod's Episcobyterian School for the Scions of the Obscenely Wealthy. 

Enough namby-pamby blather about "sensitivity" and "cooperation." Rugby. Wealth. Privilege. Sailing. Hazing. Latin. Now THAT'S a curriculum that'll toughen these pampered young hounds up. St. Herod's should make men out of them. Mens sana in corpore sanem, boys! 

Here I am sending the lads off to St. Herod's with some paternal advice.

"Fight the biggest one first, boys, and the rest'll fall into line," I said. "And try to keep the wenching and the boozing to a minimum. Noses to the grindstone. Study hard. See you at Parents' Weekend. I'll have Nanny Klagg send you a care package."

"Nanny Klagg quit the day we were born, Pop," growled Agreeable Louis J. 

"Idiot," snarls Assertive Emmanuel J. under his breath.

"Really?" I said. "Oh. Huh. Well, I'll have Cubbings do it."

 As the sleek European mommywagon (which replaced my late, lamented sleek European roadster) whisked Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J. off to boarding-school, I was overcome by a spasm of nostalgia about his own school-days at St. Herod's.

Dear old St. Herod's--cradle of my dreams, incubator of my vast (and let's face it, largely unrealized) potential, and scene of my misspent youth.

As the smoke from my Cuban Cohiba swirled aloft, my memories took shape and form within it, and I begins to reminisce about my school-days: The St. Herod's Years.

I still get a chill when I remember arriving at St. Herod's with all the other first-year boys to be greeted by the glowering countenances of Headmaster Dr. Lupus Whistlebone, D. Litt., and Mathematics Master Grover.

"Welcome to St. Herod's, boys," said Dr. Whistlebone. "I have a few words I'd like to say to you, left to right: Hoberman, get rid of that copy of 'Principles of Accounting.' We use Samuelson's here, nothing but.

"Roash, skateboarding, like all forms of fun, is strictly forbidden. You will leave that ridiculous thing in my office and retrieve it at end of term.

"Koontz, get rid of those sideburns.

"McClellan, wipe that smirk off your face.

"Estesheen-Van Chestertucky, you will leave that bass in my office and you will retrieve it at end of term.

"Dailey, you will wear regulation blue blazer and grey flannels, not camouflage.

"Palmer, extinguish that cigar. You will leave any other forms of tobacco in my office. You will not retrieve them at end of term.

"Polk, fishing, like all forms of fun, is strictly forbidden. Also, if you try fishing in the moat, you're liable to catch something you'll wish you hadn't. You will leave your fishing tackle in my office and retrieve it at end of term.

"Whipple, your mathlete badge impresses neither me nor Maths Master Grover.

"Rhodes, cricket, like all forms of fun, is strictly forbidden. You will leave your bat in my office and retrieve it at end of term.

"Denman, golf, like all forms of fun, is strictly forbidden. You will leave your clubs in my office and retrieve them at end of term.

"DeLawter, just looking at you makes me want to punch you. Maths Master Grover, swat him a few times with that ruler.

"Miller, band tryouts are next Friday at five. Until then, you may leave your trumpet in my office.

"Guillaume, you, like DeLawter, enrage me simply by existing. Maths Master Grover, swat him with that ruler."

Naturally, I wasn't there when the girls' class of St. Herod's was welcomed, but I heard from plenty of reliable sources that Headmistress Klagg was no more warm and welcoming to the girls than Headmaster Whistlebone was to the gentlemen.

"Miss Saltsman, wipe that smirk off your face.

"Miss Baldwin, while I appreciate your use of a time machine to travel back to this point in history, you will not be using it again this term. Furthermore, I do not care what hairstyles look like in the 21st century. While you are at St. Herod's in the 80s, your hair will conform to current standards. Make it bigger. Now.

"Miss Butler, while I am sure you are very proud of your braces, a 'Tin Grins are In' tee shirt is not acceptable wear at St. Herod's.

"Miss Thompson, your donning of a 'Jem' sweatshirt and leg-warmers is not blinding anyone to the fact that you were not born in the 80s.

"Miss Bousman and Miss Agah, my compliments on exceptionally large 80's hair.

"Miss Frank, it is patently obvious to me that you, like Miss Thompson, were not born in the 80s.

"Miss Stafford, I don't like the look of you at all."

St. Herod's was big on discipline. JP remembers thinking, "Why does Maths Master Grover keep a bucket of jagged rocks on the desk?" on the first day of classes.

The reason for the bucket of sharp, jagged rocks became abundantly clear very soon. Here, Professor Grover maintains classroom decorum the St. Herod's way as my fellow classmates looked on in horror.

St. Herod's was also big on physical fitness. "Mens sana in corpore sano," Dr. Whistlebone used to thunder, "A healthy mind in a healthy body, right, boys?" So we were all required to row crew.

It didn't go so hot, especially after that Pooley kid transferred in from Worcestershire-St. Wulfrid's Academy and was made the coxswain. "

JP," confessed my future co-head of estate security Miller, "I don't have a lot of confidence in the new coxswain. He's really not maintaining discipline.Polk's just fishing off the stern. DeLawter and Koontz are having an oar fight, and Koontz has his foot jammed against McClellan's face. Whipple keeps banging his oars into everyone else's, and Denman's trying to row with a nine-iron. And all Pooley's doing is sipping that 'energy drink' of his. It has olives in it and he mixes it in a silver shaker."

St. Herod's Academy, had a top-notch chemistry program. The chemistry-master, Professor Miller, stressed the practical application of subject matter, although students were not at all times precisely sure what the practical application of his tangle of pipes, pipettes, tubes, burners, beakers, tanks, gauges, and other "Breaking Bad"-type apparatus was.

When one of us did work up the gumption to ask what the experiment was supposed to be teaching us, Professor Miller snapped, "What experiment? We're not experimenting. We're brewing liquor. Mead, if you must know." 

Then he proceeded to get shnockered, sang a few bars of a song called "Bully in the Alley," and passed out on the floor.

I always enjoyed biology class at St. Herod's. Here, the science-master, Professor Moreau, is teaching the students some of the finer points of gene-splicing and genetic manipulation.

The results weren't always completely what we'd expected. I was quite fond of his lizard-gibbon until it tried to strangle him, Miss Frank's Human-Armed Goose attempted to carry her off, and Messire Rhodes's gecko-vine had a voracious appetite. Miss Butler's Ape-Giraffe was a little too effusive in its affections, and Messire Whipple learned, to his peril, that splicing a python and a millipede wasn't perhaps the hottest idea.

But Messire Dailey took great glee in his Bison-Lobster, Miss Baldwin's tentacled thing was fascinating, and Miss Stafford's bunny-butterfly brought her no end of joy.

Now, I have to admit that I didn't set any land-speed records academically at St. Herod's. I was an indifferent student at best. 

But I did seem to find my niche in the "How to Be A Proper Young Gentleman" class, taught by Lord Reginald Cyril Nigel de Poncey. Lord Reginald was an impoverished and embittered aristocrat who was forced to making a living teaching young Yanks how to dress, walk with walking sticks, and sip tea.

There, in a classroom hung with portraits of the great fops of yesteryear--Henry Waxthiddle Coxcomb, Sir Clement Popinjay, and Lord Clive Needlethread--I experienced the kind of epiphany that strikes one only once in a lifetime.

"Palmer," drawled Lord Reginald, "while I can't stand you any more than I can stand these muddle-fingered maladroits--no, Hoberman, start over...Koontz, yanking furiously at it will not change anything... Guillaume, put your tongue back in your mouth... Roash, I have no idea how you managed to do that. Your tie defies the laws of physics...Dailey, go to the nurse's office and have her cut you loose.. Anyhow, Palmer, you do seem to have a knack for this."

My reminiscences came to an end as I heard the low rumble of the Sleek European Mommywagon drawing up outside Palmerwood, and I rushed outside to welcome my progeny back to their ancestral estate.

"Welcome back, gentlemen!" I greeted the irrepressible young scamps. "I hope your first term was successful? Did you make a lot of new friends? Archenemies? Any homicides? Did you learn a lot?"

A grin the import of which would slightly unsettle a lesser or more intelligent man than I spreads across the cherubic faces of his youngest offspring.

"Oh, yes, Pop," they assured me. "We learned a heck of a lot."

The Return.

I've taken a bit of a hiatus from "Tales of Palmerwood" But now that my comic book, "Doctor Falk and the Corsican Proposition" (an epic, monumental event of colossal literary significance that will change the way you think about everything) (Yes. Everything) is nearing completion, it's time for... 

...A Return to Palmerwood.

Here's a snapshot of me returning to my magnificent, sprawling, baronial, ancestral estate of Palmerwood after defending the Republic in parts unknown. 

You'll notice I'm carrying his trusty battle-axe. I call it "Hillary."

The Expedition.

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.)

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.

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."

Now for those of you not following the saga on Facebook, it was at this point I made the story interactive, I gave the Minions a chance to vote on whether Cubbings lived or died. And what a thrilling choice it was!!! Should he be rent apart like an old Kleenex, devoured messily by feral homicidal bipolar penguins on a remote island and never again see his beloved cufflink-polishing supplies again?

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...

...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.

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.

"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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

Now, my feeling is that when it comes to aesthetic adjustments, might as well get the best. So I put in a call to Rabbi Shmeckelmesser down at Temple Beth Schochtim to trim up the boys. They weren't too pleased about it, I'm sure they'll thank me later. 

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."

The Voyage of the "Raconteur."

Now that the holidays are--mercifully--over, and now that the land where I live is shrouded in winter, I was standing on one of the 127 balconies of my sprawling, historic, luxurious country-home of Palmerwood, staring out over the frozen Midwest and hating every square inch of it.

"What," I asked myself, "is the damned point of being a fabulously independently wealthy adventurer, playboy, and jetsetter with a regally-appointed 170-ft yacht, the 'Raconteur,' if I'm not going to take advantage of it? Hell with this. Time to set sail for warmer climes that don't make me want to kill myself."

Draping myself, for the moment, in my matching sable fur hat and man-fur (a small gift from Vladimir Putin, in gratitude for services rendered the Russian state the details of which I cannot now go into), I bellowed for my trusty yet feeble-minded manservant, Cubbings, to pack my bags and carry them down to Shaddix Dock. 

And down the length of the Muddy Mississippi, past Natchez and New Orleans, through the Gulf of Mexico and into the Caribbean, sailed we. The 'Raconteur' was just rounding the Marquesas Keys when I thought I'd sit down and relax with a glass of MacAllen 64 and a Cohiba.

Unfortunately, the warmer weather induced my yachtmaster, Cap'n Stabbin, to come out of his cabin. I'd thought it best not to disturb him. God only knows what goes on in the Stabbin Cabin, and I'm sure I don't want to. But I was pleased at the devotion to duty exhibited by my serving-staff. Not a drop of the Auld Drink did they spill as they fended off the captain's advances. 

At long last, we docked in Nassau for a few days of rest and relaxation. Resplendent in a madras blazer, white ducks, a pink linen shirt, and sockless Gucci loafers, I strode down the gangplank. 

The children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., as well as my life-partner, The Greek, enjoyed the jaunt as much as I did.

That evening, as we set sail for our vacation quarters, the luxurious Vista Del Mar hotel at lovely Smegaroon Beach (faithful Minion readers of this blog will remember it as the site not only of former Palmer vacations, but as the site of the Palmerwood Illustrated Swimsuit Edition) I gazed out over the railing at the azure sea and robin's egg blue sky of the Caribbean. I felt mighty contented. At peace. Shriven. Renewed. Rejuvenated. At one with all the good Lord's creation. Slightly buzzed. And without even a hint of the disaster in the offing. 

Had I not been quite so contented and/or drunk, I might have remembered to keep on my guard. Cap'n Stabbin, when the fever comes upon him, is not to be dissuaded from his quest by the presence of a mere employer. And over the railing I tumbled.

As I plummeted into the sea--and the arms of fate--one thought crossed my mind. "There is no way in hell," I reflected, "that Cap'n Ernest Lee Stabbin is winning this year's 'Palmerwood Employee of the Year Award.' I'm giving it to Nanny Klagg. Or maybe Bechamel de Bouillabaisse. His turtle soup with brandy was particularly piquant last week. Or maybe even Cubbings, if the moron can manage to coordinate even one tie, pocket-square, and cufflink ensemble this year."

As the 'Raconteur,' its crew and passengers blissfully unaware that its owner was now no longer aboard, steamed merrily away, I realized that I was, as my Great-Great-Aunt Elfrieda Augusta Palmer was wont to describe such situations, "in a bit of a pickle."

My Olympic-calibre physical conditioning allowed me to tread water steadily for about twelve or so hours, but eventually, I realized there was no help coming, and I allowed myself to sink beneath the waves to what I could only assume was a watery grave. As I saw my life before my eyes, I was fortunate enough to get a few replays of some of my favorite memories--my trip to Cuba back in '94, and the time I knocked out two of Jerry Falwell's teeth back in 2001.



David Carradine, Michael Hutchence and I can all attest--for different reasons--to the fact that oxygen deprivation can do strange things to one's brain. I've no idea whose soft and feminine hands closed around my mighty biceps and who pulled me to safety... but I will admit that, to paraphrase the Bard, "There are more things in heaven and earth, JP, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." While I do remain dubious about the existence of certain beings, my experience did remind me to keep an open mind.



I awoke, draped in mollusks and kelp, on a white sand beach on an island which, so far as I could see, was distinguished only by its isolation from everything else.

After a good three hours without a rescue, I resigned myself to the idea that this island would be my new home and my eternal resting-place, and went full Crusoe.

Imagine, then, my surprise, when I saw, leading to the thick jungle fringe up the beach, footprints--and not just any footprints. These were the footprints of someone wearing 12.5 John Lobb Oxford Chiswells, which go for about a grand a pop. Whoever else was on this island was loaded.

I pushed my way through the jungle until it suddenly gave way to an immaculately-tended greensward. Now I've seen a good deal on this old carousel they call life, and I'm not easily surprised, but I will say I was a little taken back to see Nicolae Ceasescu, the former dictator of Communist Romania, Ivan Boesky, the disgraced former Wall Street pirate, Robert Maxwell, the former head of Maxwell Communications Corporation and the biggest thief in British history, and Ferdinand Marcos, the former dictator of the Philippines, all clad in exquisitely-tailored summer whites, and enjoying a leisurely game of croquet.

I hadn't seen Maxwell for years, not since the Bryan Adams Affair back in '90. And, like damn near everyone else in the world, I'd assumed he was dead, having fallen off his own luxurious yacht, the Lady Ghislaine, and drowned just off the Canary Islands

"Well, well, Jimmy," Maxwell's rich bass rumbled up from his capacious gut, "we've been expecting you. Welcome to the Island of Retired Megalomaniacal Egomaniacs. We've been expecting you. Let's get  you barbered up. That's no way to present yourself."

Thunderstruck, I allowed myself to be led into the barbershop of a palatial, old-fashioned hotel not far from the croquet-green--an exact replica, I noted, of the fabled, long-gone, and richly-lamented Shepheard's Hotel in Cairo. There, as I was expertly shaved and manicured by scantily-clad women, Maxwell explained things to me. 

"You see," Maxwell said as Muammar Gaddafy drops in to say cheerio, "some time ago, quite a lot of us decided that the world was just getting a little too hot for us. Indictments, revolutions, invasions, SEC investigations--who needed the heart trouble? So we built this place, faked our deaths, and came down here to get away from things. Former Communist dictators, disgraced CEOs, oligarchs on hard times--we figured we'd come down here and to be among the company of our fellow megalomaniacs. We understand each other. And we're all here: Boesky, Marcos, Mikhail Khodorkovsky, the Duvaliers... Hugo Chavez just joined us, and Fidel plans to move in some time this year."

"So basically," I mumbled through a faceful of shaving-soap (the most expensive shaving-soap in the world, I was informed--it's made of what got sucked out of Oprah and Jennifer Love Hewitt during their last liposuctions), "anyone who could have been a villain in a Bond movie is in the club?"

Maxwell nodded sagely. "That's about the shape of things, Jimmy me boy."

Unbeknownst to me, my absence from the 'Raconteur' had finally been noticed, and a crack team of loyal minions--the Chief Librarian of the Aviation Library and pilot, my vicious and fiercely loyal Heads of Security, and the resident Palmerwood physican, bon vivant, and director of the Pooley Clinic for Peasant Scrofula--had commandeered one of my fleet of Chris-Craft Silver Bullets and gone in search of me. Staying close to shore in case they ran short of liquor, this fearsome "Death or Glory" band pledged themselves to my safe return.

But I was having other thoughts.



As Maxwell, Marcos and I left the sumptuous Hotel des Supervillains for a stroll down the avenue, Maxwell applied to me the hard sell for which he was notorious.

"Stick around, Jimmy," he exhorted me. "Stay here in the company of your fellow despotic magnates."

"Dammit, man!" I snarled. "I'm a selfless defender of the Republic! A noble crusader for truth, justice, and the right of ALL humankind to enjoy fabulous luxuries like superb bespoke tailoring and triple-distilled wheat vodka!"

"Enough with the pious posturing, Jimmy," Marcos sneered. "Are we really so different, you and us? Was the Joker that different from Batman? Or Moriarty from Sherlock Holmes? Aren't heroes and villains just mirror reflections of each other? Gooble gobble, Jimmy, one of us... one of us..."

"The weather's always superb, James," Maxwell added. "The company's excellent, the food and liquor sublime, the cigars Cuban, and the golf course here is the best on the planet."

"I hate golf," I replied, though my steely resolve wavered.

"Did we mention we've got Alyssa Milano and Susanna Hoffs from the Bangles giving full-body Swedish massages in the clubhouse after each game?" Marcos asked slyly.

"When's tee time, again?" I asked.

My resolve, however, didn't get a whole lot of time to waver.

Suddenly, without warning, the lulling calm of the Island of Retired Megalomaniacal Egomaniacs is shattered when a posse of violent, bloodthirsty, and most likely drunken desperadoes explodes onto the scene, firing indiscriminately. Ferdinand Marcos, holed through the chest, goes down.

Maxwell flees, calling over his shoulder, "PALMER! Do you have any idea who these people are?!?"

I, seeing the plaid shorts, white tube socks, and Teva sandal ensemble on his pilot and Aviation Library chief librarian, nodded in recognition. Oh yes. I knew exactly who they were.

I was, gently, persuaded to leave the Island of Retired Megalomaniacal Egomaniacs and return to the real world. Not, however, before shrieking, "JUST ONE ROUND OF GOLF. JUST ONE. JUST ONE!!!!!!!"

"Sunstroke," mused Dr. Pooley. "Man's delirious. He hates golf. What's desperately needed now is vodka."

"Vodka? Really?" wondered Head of Security Dailey.

"For a man with sunstroke?" asked Head of Security Miller.

"No," says Pooley. "For me."

"Step it up," bellows Rhodes. "I've missed enough cricket matches looking for this $#&@! as it is."



I was, of course, thrilled to be returning to Palmerwood and all the trappings of my regular life. Just tickled. Couldn't be happier not to be spending the rest of my life on a secret tropical island populated by crazy-rich retired supervillains and 80's pop-culture divas who have aged remarkably well.

I will admit, however, to being a tad subdued, for some reason. I didn't really join in the merriment of my rescuers as they celebrated my safe return with a post-rescue binge on martinis, scotch and Kit Royales (beautifully mixed by my newest Elite Minion, Expert Fancy-Shmancy Cocktail Mixtress, Madame Karen Stafford Thornton) (that's her relaxing on the bow. She came along because she figured Messrs. Rhodes, Pooley, Dailey, and Miller might be thirsty) (this also marks the first time a female Minion--or Minionne, or Minuette, or whatever--has been visually represented. Kind of a landmark, no?).

No, I was uncharacteristically melancholy as the rescue craft rounds the coast of Miami and the high-rises and condos come into view.

Must've been the sunstroke.