The Ancient and Noble Sport of Falconry

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the Archives: The Brave Tale of Commodore Horatio Frobisher Greville "Fishbait" Palmer

The Palmers have never shrunk from their duty to serve the Republic they love so dear. Down through the generations, this fabled mishpoche of aristocrats, this noblest of noble clans has always arisen to shed their bluer than blue blood to defend our precious democracy.

Which statement I realize, as I type this, is a little contradictory. Huh. Wonder how it is I never noticed that before.

But I digress. Herein we delve into the Palmerwood archives to bring you the tale of Commodore Horatio Frobisher Greville "Fishbait" Palmer, hero of the War of 1812.

Commodore Palmer's major contribution to nautical warfare was the somewhat controversial reintroduction of the galley-ship. Long considered both obsolete (since Viking days, actually) and inhumane, the galley was a concept whose time, the Commodore was just sure as shootin', had come. Again.

"I don't care how big that man-o-war is," he was once heard to bellow from the fo'c'sle, "the fact that we're rowing gives us greater maneuverability."

The above picture also leads me to mention that the Cubbings family has faithfully served us for a long, long time.

In the spring of 1813, while the conflict considered by many eminent historians to be the Second War of Independence raged, the Commodore, accompanied by his hearty crew of galleymen, set off on a daring voyage across the Atlantic on a secret mission: a sneak attack on the English port of Swansea in retribution for the treacherous Redcoats' attack on Washington.

Limey bastards.

The voyage, however, took longer than Commodore Palmer had anticipated, and upon their arrival in 1815, they were greeted with the news that the war had ended the previous year.

Tragedy struck when, unexpectedly, a boathook caught the brave Commodore from behind and swept him out to sea. Thus perished both the redoubtable Commodore Palmer and his dream of seeing an ocean patrolled by American galley-ships.

It is recorded, however, that the mackerel they caught with him was the largest ever seen in the Bristol Channel.

In the Far West.

As I am an internationally-renowned celebrity, I’m in demand at chic glitterati-studded parties the world over. And, occasionally, I have been known to overindulge. But on this particular occasion, it wasn't my fault. I was entrapped most vilely in a sinister plot. Which, of course, I overcame. Hearken now to the thrilling tale of derring-do and adventure.

I awoke after one elegant black-tie gala soiree with a roaring champagne hangover next to an abandoned Esso station somewhere in the Nevada desert with no recollection how I got there, and vultures circling high overhead. This happens more often than I'd like to admit.

My patent-leather evening shoes crusted with the brains of Gila monsters and rattlesnakes I stomped on, and the crisply-starched ruffles on my shirt wilting, I trudged through the desert. My cracked, parched lips creaked open--a guttural croak rasped from my gritty throat: "S-s-s-Sambuca...properly chilled...w-w-w-with five...c-coffee beans...s-s-suspended on the s-s-s-surface."

And, exhausted, I lay on the hot desert ground, gasping my last.

"Farewell, you wisenheimers," I whispered, remembering those who had meant something to me: my executive chef, Bechamel de Bouillabaisse; my trusty gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere; my devoted but feeble-minded manservant, Cubbings: my ever-bloodthirsty heads of security, Matt Miller and Mike Dailey; my Parkinson's-afflicted personal tailor, Sal Sapienza; my personal mycologist and Keeper of the Palmerwood greenhouses Steven Bernstein, Esq.; my fellow country gentleman squire Tim Van Huss; fellow Kraken Club members, Jim Rhodes, Kyle Whipple; my devoted doctor to the peasantry, Rob Pooley, tireless crusader against peasant scrofula; my easily-distracted yacht-commander, Cap'n Stabbin, who won't leave his cabin; my personal mead-distiller and Palmerwood's bard-in-residence, Michael John Miller

But my time had not yet come. In the distance, I saw a cluster of dilapidated buildings. Upon closer examination, I saw that it was an abandoned mining-town--an Old West ghost town. Tumbleweeds blew past--a sign reading "Fudwupper's Livery Stable" hung from a dilapidated clapboard building, creaking slightly as it blows in the hot desert wind.

Abandoned? I narrowed my hawklike eyes. Something didn’t feel right.

In the saloon, a ghastly sight met my eyes--skeletons with rags of clothing dangling from their bones lay on the floors and across the bar, sitting at the piano. A massacre took place here. There were, however, a few unopened bottles of "Uncle Phil's Dyspeptic Grizzly Corn-Squeezin's Whiskey" behind the bar. I’d averted by dehydration narrowly... but the mystery remained.



Slightly buzzed from, but eminently restored by, the two bottles of "Uncle Phil's Dyspeptic Grizzly Corn-Squeezin's Whiskey" I found in the skeleton-strewn saloon*, I strolled through the ghost-town, stomping nonchalantly on a few more Gila monsters, when suddenly, WHOOSH—I fell into an abandoned mineshaft, obscured by a patch of jimsonweed. Definitely not, I assure you, screaming like a six-year-old girl with her pigtails caught in a paper-shredder, I landed--rather hard, I might add--on my fanny at the bottom of the old mineshaft. I pulled my grandfather's antique monogrammed silver Zippo from my pocket, lit a cigar, and smoked morosely in the darkness. Somewhat belatedly, I also remembered that a lighter can be used to produce light, so I fired up his Zippo again.

I found myself in a cavernous...uh... cavern deep below the earth. Yet more skeletons litter the ground. Eyes narrowed, puffing furiously on my Cohiba, I examined them.

One wore a Teamsters jacket and a pinkie ring! I examined the skeleton's wallet. As I suspected, Jimmy Hoffa. One wore an old-fashioned leather aviator cap--clearly Amelia Earhart. Another had a bag of money--$200,000, all bills dated before 1971--D.B. Cooper! Another held, in its bony fingers, a few pages of handwritten pages with entries from something called "The Devil's Dictionary"--Good God's urge, it's Ambrose Bierce! What in the name of sweet holy baby Moses had I stumbled upon?

Mystified by the presence of the moldering bones of famous disappearances down this old mineshaft, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to fill my grandfather's vintage silver monogrammed Zippo. It flickered out, plunging me back into total darkness... except for that tiny little pinprick of light at the end of a very long tunnel. I scrambled toward it and clambered through a crack in the stone, tumbled down a small incline, stood up, brushed off my dinner-jacket, puffed on my expensive Cuban Cohiba, and looked around.

"Great zounds!" I muttered in my sensual, well-modulated baritone (you should only hear that voice of mine. Listening to me talk feels like someone's pouring warm maple syrup on your naked flesh. Next to my voice, Barry White sounds like a chainsmoking crow gargling broken glass). "This is a bit unexpected!"

I’d emerged from the abandoned mineshaft into a valley. Pacific pines and juniper trees dotted the landscape… a crystal-clear lake shimmered to my left.

Thirsty, I ambled toward the lake, and, like Gideon's men of old, descended to my hands and knees to whet my whistle. But as I slurped up water, something moved in the water, and a tall, flat, grayish-black tail slapped me in the face.

Again NOT shrieking in terror like a little girl, I leaped back and stared into the water. The creature, whatever it was, retreated into the depths... but I got a halfway good look at it. Great zounds! Had I stumbled upon... the Legendary Giant Black Salamanders of the Trinity Alps?!?*

Things looked bleak. No food, no weapons, and the only source of water is full of rapacious carnivorous giant salamanders the size of crocodiles. One of them surfaced and snapped at me, displaying a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth.

So I wasn’t at all surprised to hear a voice dripping with evil say, "Welcome to my little far-western getaway, Mister Palmer. I've been expecting you for some time."

I spun around. There stood the Prince of Evil himself: Rupert Murdoch. The withered old reptile held a chain in one claw, the other end of which was attached to a dog collar around the neck of a blonde woman who crouched next to him on all fours, wearing only a leather thong and a ballgag. 

"Murdoch, you withered old reptile," I snarled, and then looked more closely at the woman. "Say, is that Megyn Kelly of Fox News? Why's she got a ballgag in her mouth?"

"Ohhhh, she likes it, the naughty minx," hissed Murdoch, and swats her fanny with a riding crop. "Plus it keeps her from saying moronic things like Jesus was white. It's okay for my brainwashed viewers, but I personally can't stand to listen to her."

He swatted her again. THWACK. "MMMMPPHH!" she groaned around the ballgag.

"Most intelligent utterance she's ever made," I quipped with my customary devastating wit.

"Undoubtedly," croaked the withered old reptile. "But enough small talk, Mister Palmer. I'm sure you're just dying to know why I brought you here.”

"Do your worst, you withered old reptile," I sneered at the withered old reptile. "There's a squad of minions on their way right now. One's a librarian, and we both know books are Fox News's kryptonite. One's gay, and might actually show up in drag. See what THAT does to your family-values agenda. Two of them might actually be registered Republicans, but they're fiercely loyal and value mayhem and bloodshed over ideology any day."

"Enough of your bravado, Mister Palmer," Murdoch hissed, pointing a gun at me. "This way. I have more than enough time to complete my nefarious plan before your little pals show up."

My hands in the air, I marched into a subterranean passage ahead of the withered old reptile.

Some distance down the passageway, I entered a large room. A cage filled with fake trees and tire swings stood there. Ann Coulter, Lawrence Kudlow, Sean Hannity, Bill O'Reilly, Neil Cavuto, and Greta Van Susteren cavort about inside it, grooming each other, beating their chests, and eating bananas.

"Careful as we pass the Fox pundits' cage," Murdoch says in a wheezy chuckle. "They've been known to throw their...but surely I needn't explain further."

In the pundits' cage, Neil Cavuto crouches, leering at Megyn Kelly'; Bill O'Reilly clambers on a tire-swing; Greta Van Susteren picks nits from Sean Hannity's shoulders; and Ann Coulter snarls ferally behind Greta.

There stood a pair of surgical tables. On one of them lay an unconscious, pasty, dough-faced man. Even sedated, his lip curled in a supercilious sneer.

"Good God's urge! Dick Cheney!" I shouted. "Let me guess. He needs another heart transplant, and you brought me here to rip out my mighty heart and give it to him, that he might live another century?"

"Close but no cigar, Mister Palmer," hissed the withered old reptile. "The Dark Lord has no heart. He gets by just fine without one. That heart transplant nonsense is just a story we tell the masses. No, the Dark Lord survives on pure bile alone--you can imagine the strain it puts on his liver. He doesn't need a heart--he needs another liver. And yours, my Scotch-, ouzo-, and vodka-swilling friend, is legendary."

The withered old reptile's flunkies strapped me to the other surgical table. A diabolical surgeon, scalpel in hand, leaned forward to chop open my chiseled six-pack of an abdomen. Megyn Kelly began to drool around the ballgag in her stupid mouth.

"Too bad this isn't covered by Obamacare," wheezes the withered old reptile Murdoch. "Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh."

My mind raced furiously. Suddenly, I had an inspiration. "HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!!!" I shouted at the top of my lungs.



The Fox News pundits in their monkey-cage suddenly stopped grooming each other. "WAR ON CHRISTMAS!" shrieked Ann Coulter. "WAR ON CHRISTMAS, WAR ON CHRISTMAS, WAR ON CHRISTMAS!" shrieked O'Reilly, Hannity, Van Susteren. They began leaping up and down, frothing at the mouth and beating their chests, a homicidal glint in their tiny primate eyes. Their rage giving them super-monkey powers, they pulled bars apart and burst out of the cage, indiscriminately wrecking and destroying all in their path.

"NOOOOO!" howled the withered old reptile, "what about the Dark Lord's new liver?" as a scene of utter pandemonium ensued.

In the unutterable mayhem, I deftly grabbed the diabolical surgeon's scalpel between my teeth and cut the leather restraints.

"CURSE YOU, PALMER!" wheezed Rupert Murdoch. "You've won this round, but not the war!" The withered old reptile pressed the the "Self-Destruct" button on the instrument panel and slithered away into an open drainpipe. I fled back up the passageway as an electronic voice recited, "Sinister secret subterranean far western hideout will self-destruct in ten seconds... nine... eight..." and leaped outside just as a devastating explosion rocked the mountainside.

Having fled the inferno that consumed the withered old reptile Rupert Murdoch's secret subterranean lair, I heard something behind me. I spun around to see a hideously burned and disfigured Sean Hannity emerging from the tunnel. Predictably, his asbestos-like hair was unharmed.

"AHHRRR... 'N... HRISS'AS!"* he rasped through his lipless mouth, raising Murdoch's gun to finish JP off once and for all... when a giant voracious rapacious carnivorous salamander lurched from the crystal-clear mountain lake. In two chomps, the amphibian swallowed him, leading me to reflect for a moment on the irony of a Fox pundit being consumed by a Newt.



As Sean Hannity disappeared down the giant salamander's throat, I watched the helicopter land and an elite squad of minions swarm out of it. They are an awe-inspiring lot: desperate, bloodthirsty, armed to the teeth, bristling with weapons, and, JP is pleased to note, impeccably accessorized.

"Gents," I said, "I do hope that's 18-year single-malt in the 'copter. I've worked up a powerful thirst. And of your courtesy, would you mind wrangling that 'mander on board? The children need a new pet."

And now, in the finest literary tradition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Edgar Allan Poe, Rex Stout, and Scooby-Doo: the part where the hero sums it all up and explains it. 

*By the way, these are real(ish) things. Many people over the years have reported seeing giant salamanders in a remote lake in the American far west. Click on the link to learn a little more about these things.

I love cryptozoology. 

The World According to JP.

As the Palmerwood mythos began to crystallize, I took an early stab at a visual representation of the vision of reality now emerging.

JP himself, resplendent in bow tie, running shorts, and Nikes, and brandishing cigar, martini, and AK-47, stands forefront, flanked by his children, Intrepid Stella A. and Young Leo J. Stella holds her trademark harpoon-gun, and Leo his katanas.

Immediately behind them lies a dead intelligent air-breathing giant squid. Behind it, a heap of easily-dispatched zombies, and behind that stand the statues of my three heroes, Noam Chomsky, Joseph Pulitzer, and Bob Dylan.

In the background stands the Old Train Station, which is such an important setting of American legend and folklore. And behind it is, of course, my 180-foot yacht, the "Raconteur," and an early version of Palmerwood.


And because I believe that every American deserves the same protections as the Republic herself receives, I decided to make available a special set of ACTION FIGURES!!!

Well, that, and because, hell, why not make a buck where you can?

Springtime at Palmerwood.

When I'm not gallantly slaying and eviscerating the enemies of the Republic we all hold so dear, partying with A-list glitterati, cruising the world on my 180-foot yacht, the "Raconteur," jetting to all manner of exotic locations aboard my sumptuous G-4, or managing the multitudinous business affairs of the far-flung Palmer empire, I enjoy rusticating at my historic country estate of Palmerwood.

Ah, beloved Palmerwood, with its gardens, its stock-barns, its fields of cotton, tobacco, and indigo, its lakes and ponds brimming with perch, trout, and giant squid.

Enchanting Palmerwood, where the cries of the peacocks echo over the stone ramparts, where the lowing of the Hereford cattle rumbles in low and soothing undertone, and where the fragrance of the English climbing roses almost covers the stench wafting toward the manor-house from the peasant-mews.

Hmm. It's particularly sharp to-day. Damme the luck, if there's been another dysentery outbreak. Must have a word with Dr. Pooley about that. But I digress. Back to my pastoral reflections.

Magnificent Palmerwood, with its rolling expanse of pasturage and hunting-grounds, its exquisitely-appointed log-cabin hunting-lodges, its wooded hills teeming with yetis, its gentle valleys full of grazing stock, and its views of the Mississippi River and the St. Louis Arch off in the distance.

Majestic Palmerwood, with its armies of retainers and faithful servants, its helipad, its landing strip, its docks and marina, its armories and lighthouses. It is truly a wondrous place, a place to warm the cockles of the heart of every well-appointed fabulously wealthy country gentleman.

But perhaps its most distinguished feature is my prized herd of pedigreed Eurasian wild boars.

For years, I've been cultivating and breeding a particularly large and vicious strain of Sus Scrofa, the common wild boar. Bloodthirsty, massive, immensely powerful and inordinately clever, these beasts are the flower of Palmerwood's livestock. You simply can't imagine the thrill of chasing one of these gigantic boar-hogs into the field, the adrenaline rush of battle, and the exuberance of the triumph of eventually landing the beast.

Not only do they make for magnificent hunting, they're also delicious when ground up, flavored with pungent spices, and stuffed inside the body-cavities of coturnix quail by my executive chef, M. Bechamel de Bouillabaisse.

Springtime is the rutting-season of the prize pedigreed Palmerwood piggies. A magical season in all ways. Here's a snapshot of me in my country-tweeds, tailored expressly for me by MacGlanhorbernathyghannitie & Sons of Edinburgh (what they lack in pronounceability they make up in talent with thread and needle) and my redoubtable gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, as we survey the boar-herds. Soon, as the snow recedes, the daisies peek forth, and Mistress Spring touches the earth with her bounty, the hunting-horns will once more ring out over the hills and dales of Palmerwood. Tally-ho!

Of Volunteer Work and Giant Pigs

Nothing is more rewarding than giving back to the community, is it? And to whom much is given, much is expected.

As a man of singular gifts, it behooved me to seek out a volunteer opportunity worthy of my talents... something a lesser man simply wouldn't dare to undertake.

There is a menace stalking America as dire as any Redcoat who ever burned the White House in 1812, as any Mexican who attacked the Alamo, or as any Commie who ever lurked under good American beds in the 50's.

I refer, of course, to the giant feral hogs currently rooting their way through the Deep South.

So when I heard of the Giant Feral Boar terrorizing the good people of Choctaw Flats, GA, and the terrors wreaked upon dear old Mrs. Clatterbuck's prize turnip patch, I knew I'd found my opportunity to serve my fellow man. Even if I don't like the way Southerners vote. Maybe some Yankee beneficence would bring them around and show them we're not all a bunch of carpetbaggers.

As you can see from this photograph, giant feral hogs are no laughing matter.

*

Immediately, I winged my way south on my luxurious G-4, and began my hunt for the beast, which the Minions, after due consideration, renamed Beel Z. Bubba. The locals had originally named him Mr. Pigglesby, but there was no way I could bring myself to kill something called "Mr. Pigglesby."

The hunt began.



Notice how I crouched, pantherlike, like a coiled spring of violence and vengeance, at the mouth of the beast's lair, when I'd finally tracked it to its foul digs. 

Beel Z. Bubba's eventual emergence from his cave from its cave gave me occasion to reflect on John Lennon's words: "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." The giant feral hog of Choctaw Flats, GA, turned out, like so many things in life, not to be precisely what was expected. 

I left left the town of Choctaw Flats and Mrs. Clatterbuck's turnip patch safer and happier places. Volunteering feels good. Winging my way home aboard my luxurious private G4 with a stack of "Maxim" back issues, a bottle of chilled vodka, a fine Cuban Cohiba, and Intrepid Stella A.'s newest pet cuddling next to me, I reflected on the wisdom of Franklin D. Roosevelt's adage: "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."

*There may well be some scoffers out there who claim this looks like one of the enteledonts from the BBC series "Walking With Prehistoric Beasts." To such skepticism, I can only say that haters gonna hate. 

Pets.

Boy howdy, do I hate the Romneys and everything they stand for. I despise the whole lot of them--Mitt and Ann and their five identical clone-sons, Tagg, Flugg, Blugg, Gagg, and Boba Fett.

Hate 'em.

But I have to admit that Ann seems to get a lot of enjoyment from her Olympic-caliber dressage horse, "Rafalca." Here's a picture of them both together.

Doesn't she look happy and well-adjusted, standing next to that beautiful animal?

Wait, what? What's that you say? You say that's not "Rafalca" the dressage horse standing next to the lovely Mrs. Romney? You say that's actually Paul Ryan's wife Janna?

Well, I'll be damned. And here I was sure that was "Rafalca." It sure looks like a horse. Hell, I can tell how old it is just by looking at its teeth. 

Boy, do I have egg on my face! Well, anyhow, the point still stands. Having a pet seems to have done wonders for Mrs. Romney's disposition. And as I have tendencies toward crankiness and malcontentism, I thought maybe I should look into getting some pets as well.

I've always had a thing for Sea Monkeys, so I decided to buy some. Seriously, who could resist them? Look at this happy, smiling, perfect aquatic family. Why, they look almost as well-scrubbed and happy and wholesome as the Romneys themselves.

So I went for it and ordered the whole Sea Monkey kit. Boy oh boy, was I excited! I was dreaming of watching these tiny, delicate, underwater humanoids perform their graceful underwater ballet for hours. It was going to be spellbinding. I was just sure of it. 

But upon my initial examination through a magnifying glass, I was a little surprised, and, frankly, disheartened. My Sea Monkeys weren't at all what I'd expected them to be.



Further observation of the Sea Monkeys left me even more disappointed.

Yet further observation revealed the source of the problem. They weren't Sea Monkeys at all. They were... they were... gasp... TEA MONKEYS. 

Heartbroken, I regretfully made the difficult decision to boil the Tea Monkeys alive. It was tough, but it was, undoubtedly, the most humane way to deal with the situation.

Except for the one who expressed serious doubts about my existence. For some reason, I liked him. I decided to let him live.