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.

Places I've Never Been, But Would Like To Have.

A lot of the stories that continually swirl around in my head, and which I never actually get around to writing, either begin or take place within a place the official name of which is Rosenberg's Dairy Cafe, and the unofficial name of which is "Shtarkers" (shtarker being Yiddish for "strongman," or "thug").

I think I first thought up Shtarkers when I heard this song: the Amsterdam Klezmer Band's "Sadagora Hot Dub," and I wondered in what kind of place I'd like to hear it played live. Shtarkers leapt into my head, fully-formed and populated. It's easier to imagine it with this song playing in the background.

Shtarkers, of course, never existed. I made it up. But I'm sure countless places like it did at one time. The Yiddish-speaking world, in cities like Lvov, Bialystok, London, Detroit, Buffalo, Chicago, Philadelphia, St. Louis, Miami, Cleveland, and especially New York, was punctuated with places like Shtarkers--watering-holes and gathering-places of the old Yiddish underground. They were places as colorful as the communities they served, where socialist firebrands, ghetto poets, newspaper editors, cartoonists and funny-book men, workers and shleppers, businessmen and bagmen, rabbis and atheists, and gangsters--especially, in my imagination, the gangsters--congregated to eat, laugh, fight, kvetch, kibitz, wheedle, plead, lie, brag, beg, bust balls, tell tall tales, pontificate, do business, and talk, talk, talk, talk, talk with the peculiar intensity, ferocity, and humor which marks Yiddish discourse.

But that's all gone now. I'm sure there are still a few places like this around--in St. Louis, it's Kopperman's--but they're mere shadows of what they once were, and the clientele is people like me, nudniks and nebbishes nostalgic for a world that was long dead decades before we were gleams in our papa's eyes. No more the makhers and shvitzers, the greenehs and the lantzmen fresh off the boats, the nogoodniks and shnorrers, the handlers and the tzaddiks, who used to frequent them. But I like to think about the kind of place where Abe Reles, Big Maxey Greenberg, Gyp the Blood and Lefty Louie, Morris Dickstein and Abe Cahan, Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster, might have congregated, for the sake of the stories that were told there, the stories that began and ended there.

You can tell I'm a phony because I left the jars of pickles off the tables.

The Mysterious Disappearance of Ann Coulter.

Now that it's late autumn and the days grow ever colder and more joyless, of a morning, I like to take breakfast in the glass-paneled, tropical plant-filled conservatory of Palmerwood.

One morning, not too very many days ago, as I was enjoying the usual breakfast of all fabulously wealthy aristocratic international playboys and adventurers of leisure and fortune (onion scones, quail eggs over easy, yogurt, and Apple Jacks), my doughty and redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, burst into the room in a state of great agitation.

This isn't the first time this has happened, and it generally bodes ill.

Pausing only to light up a truly lovely Cuban Cohiba (I find that a cigar in the morning hits the spot. Really gets rid of that horrible toothpaste breath), I raced off behind the redoubtable and doughty Monsieur de Baliviere.

Now lest you think I was happy about having to do so, I wasn't. My misgivings increased with every step I took. It would have been so much easier to return to my quail eggs, my carafe of Kopi Iuwak coffee ($600/lb), and my Apple Jacks. But Lord knows, I'm nothing if not a RESPONSIBLE feudal land baron. And as my father used to say, "Sonny, if there's trouble afoot on one's rambling, luxurious, palatial country estate, there's no sense in sticking one's head in the sand."




I followed the doughty and redoubtable Monsieur de Baliviere over a low ridge of boulders at the base of a small hill somewhere up in the far northern and little-explored reaches of Palmerwood. There, at the crest of the hill, half-buried in the ground, are the smoking remains of what appears to be a small spacecraft. No wonder Mr. de Baliviere was so agitated! That's not the kind of think you run across every day, is it?

At the risk of being overly obvious, I got the very strong suspicion that this battered wreck is...[pause for dramatic effect, and please cue the eerie Theremin music]... NOT OF THIS WORLD.

Now, I'm no astrophysicist, but I know enough to know that I'd better not mess around with an awe-inspiring spacecraft of extraterrestrial origin without the proper preparations.

By "preparations," of course, I mean a quick phone call to Neil deGrasse Tyson and Lawrence Krauss, and a slug of hooch. Considering it's right after breakfast, it's a little early in the day for an 18-year single malt, so it looks like Johnny Walker Black for this.

The doughty, redoubtable Monsieur Oliviere de Baliviere and I retired from the scene of the crashed starship to consult the experts and swig a shlook of hooch. As we strolled back to the mansion, I congratulated myself on my own superb judgment. I really wanted to open that chariot from beyond the stars, but I didn't. Because I have superb restraint.

This isn't, however, a quality shared by my children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J.

Now, I'm well aware that an alien visitation episode means the series can officially be said to have jumped the shark. "Happy Days," "Miami Vice," and even "The Dukes of Hazzard" all started to suck after their alien visitation episodes. However, one could reasonably ask whether the Palmerwood story was ever on the right side of the shark to begin with, so on we boldly barrel.

Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. have occasionally been known to rush in where angels fear to tread. Opening a strange spacecraft of extraterrestrial origin would perhaps be something about which even ten- and five-year-olds might have second thoughts. But not these two.

"Greetings, earth larvae," says an strange voice from the depths of the ship. "I am Xothnarg of Blrk 2645-J, and I have come to your planet to ask a question."

"What we on Blrk-2645-J don't get, terra-grubs," Xothnarg the alien says, "is this: corporate profits are at record highs, oil prices are down, Osama Bin Laden is dead, there's no inflation, interest rates are as low as they've been in three decades, unemployment is at record lows, the stock market is at record highs, the wealthy are still crazy-rich, and millions of Americans who didn't have insurance do now. So why, earth-cubs, why, why, WHY in the name of Grbldrk Almighty, did your people give the GOP a majority in both the House and the Senate? For Grbldrk's sake, WHY??!? When things are going so well, why in the flrkjk did your people hand control of the legislative branch to the same klrgholes who flrkjked everything six ways from Grblday in the first place?!?"

My children, who are ten and five, are still in the nascence of their political awareness, and have no answer to this question. But they have listened to their old man ranting and raving, and they do have an idea or two.

"Well, there's this creature our Pop despises above all others," Young Leo J. says thoughtfully. "The Coulter-Beast," nods Intrepid Stella A. "Apparently, it controls the thoughts of a significant percentage of the voting public. Maybe if you captured it and studied it, that might answer your question?"

Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., take their new acquaintance, Xothmarg of Blrk-2645, to the magnificently-appointed, oak-paneled library of Palmerwood to do a little research.

In "The Big Book of Horrible Things," they hit paydirt: a description of the Coulter-Beast, complete with its diet.

"Excellent," says Intrepid Stella A. "Let's bait the trap."



After stopping off at the scullery to get a few pounds' worth of rotten meat, Intrepid Stella A., Young Leo J., and Xothnarg return to the woods to bait the trap. Young Leo J. erected a hastily-constructed Potemkin village of sycophantic Ann Coulter fans, and Intrepid Stella A. sounded the Coulter-Call.

All that remained to do was wait for the beast to appear.

Intrepid Stella A., Young Leo J., and their newfound acquaintance, Xothnarg of Planet Blrk 2645-J, await the arrival of the Coulter-Beast in the bosky northern reaches of the great Palmerwood Forest.

They don't have to wait long. Within moments, the sound of stiletto heels squelching into the earth is heard and a screeching, strident voice shatters the cool morning silence. Attracted by the stench of rotting meat and the what it perceives to be adulatory attention--both are like crack to its ilk--the Coulter-Beast lumbers into view.

Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., and their new pal Xothnarg of Blrk 2645-J, watch intently as the Coulter-Beast lumbers toward the rotten meat with which they've cleverly baited their trap. Such brilliant children. I'm just sure they're gifted.

"By the holy bouncing Jzflgr of Grbldrk Himself, young Earth sproutlings!" breathes Xothnarg. "I've fought the Wild Snarling Snerks of the Burning Wastelands of Captillion-7, seen the Snagfestering Grook of Tau Alphalon-9 disembowel a whole flock of Shibboleths, and watched the Glumbering Horkthul battle the Klagging Smeerkachalot of Stampophilion-5--but I've never seen anything as horrifyingly and nauseatingly vile as the Coulter-Beast of Earth!"

My precious lil' poppets, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J., are dab hands at building rope-snare traps. With a SNAP-WHOOSH, the Coulter-beast is lofted into the air and dangles there like knock-kneed yo yo. Which she is, come to think of it.

"Look at this whore-shoe," Intrepid Stella A. growls, picking up one of Ann's stripper-heels in disgust. "REAL women don't need to wear shoes like this to make them look good."

"I am, of course, a newcomer to this planet, Earth-larvae," muses Xothnarg, peering at the Coulter-beast's exposed junk, "and little-versed in the anatomy of your kind, but from what I can see, that's not a real woman."

Xothnarg of Blrk 2645-J couldn't have been happier with the Catch of the Day.

"Deepest gratitude, earth-tadpoles," he says. "We'll subject this creature to a few rousing sessions of good old-fashioned alien probes, and perhaps science will be able to answer the question of why your people vote so stupidly. And in gratitude, I'd like to give you a gift from the people of Blrk 2645-J."

Xothnarg hands them a small metal box festooned with sciency-looking blinking lights.

"It will help you in your struggle against the Klagg creature which now oppresses you. Open it when your fellow terra-spawn are born... but not a minute before, you got me?"

Now I am, as a fabulously wealthy international adventurer, Defender of the Republic, and celebrity, of course well-connected at the very highest levels of government, and a quick call to the right people sends a flock of the world's foremost experts in alien life scurrying to Palmerwood for a closer look.

But when they arrive, all they find is an empty crater where the alien spacecraft was. Everyone is mystified.

Everyone except, of course, my doughty and redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere. This skilled woodsman and tracker's discovery of a mysterious whore-stiletto heel leads him to believe that there's more here than meets the eye... but will the world ever know the whole story????

L'Apres-Vie

Artur Schopenhauer wrote that death is not to be feared, as it is simply a return to the state of unbeing--a state we all occupied before conception and birth.

Or, as Mark Twain far more accessibly put it, the idea of death didn't bother him, since he'd been dead for millions of years before he was born, and it had never caused him the slightest inconvenience whatsoever.

The admirable Mr. Clemens expounded upon this idea in his personal creed, which first saw the light of day in 1973, when it was published in What is Man? And Other Philosophical Writings (Stanford: University of California Press):

There may be a hereafter and there may not be. I am wholly indifferent about it. If I am appointed to live again I feel sure it will be for some more sane and useful purpose than to flounder about for ages in a lake of fire and brimstone for having violated a confusion of ill-defined and contradictory rules said (but not evidenced) to be of divine institution. If annihilation is to follow death I shall not be aware of the annihilation, and therefore shall not care a straw about it.

Whether there is or there isn't any continued consciousness or existence after we croak is something I don't know and neither do you and neither does anyone else on the planet. It is also not something I waste a lot of time thinking about. But if, on the off chance, there IS an afterlife, my own personal preference would be to spend a few billion millennia yacking with some of the greatest and most interesting talkers humanity's ever produced.

After shuffling off this vale of tears, I'd invite (left to right and then clockwise) Sigmund Freud, Joseph Heller, Joseph Pulitzer, Leon Trotsky, Noam Chomsky, Richard Hofstadter, the aforementioned Mr. Twain, and Herbert Bayard Swope to sit around my celestial salon and just gab.

To the best of my knowledge, none of them ever met each other. Pulitzer and Twain were roughly contemporaries, as were Freud, Trotsky, and Swope. Swope actually worked for Joseph Pulitzer for a while, but by the time Swope came to work for the New York World, Pulitzer's paper, Pulitzer was essentially an absentee despot who ruled his paper from his yacht via telephone, telegrams, and letters, and I know of no evidence they ever met. Hofstadter, Heller, and Chomsky all lived and worked throughout the twentieth century in pretty close proximity (Chomsky is still alive and active), but I don't know if they ever met.

But wouldn't a confab between these guys be something to witness? Almost makes one wish one could believe.