Non-Sectarian Midwinter's Holiday Cards in the Tradition Consisted with Your Ethnic, Religious or Cultural Tradition.

We at Palmerwood are somewhat ambivalent about the holiday season. Or at least I am. The children enjoy it. And so do I, to some extent--the feasting, the fellowship, the presents.

Mostly the presents, though.

But holiday-season weather, at least in the Midwest, is a thing of yawning horror. Cold, darkness, snow and ice... all these things bring yetis down from the heavily wooded slopes of the Palmer Mountains in the far northern reaches of the estate in droves.

Horrifying.

So, on balance, I'd prefer to dispense with the season altogether and just buy my own presents.

But we make exceptions for the sake of the children, don't we, so each year, I do my best to grin (a horrible skull-like rictus, admittedly, but I DO try) and get into the spirit of things.

Here's a selection of our holiday-cards. As I am not only an artist of heartbreaking talent, but a poet of swoon-inducing gifts as well, I generally include a few lines of season-appropriate doggerel.

Here's from 2016.

And here's from 2017. Notice I've refined my style somewhat.

And here's 2018... 

And 2019. 

Doesn't make the season any more bearable, but it does give a man something to do on those long, dark winter evenings. 

The Annual Great Hunt

Well, back in 2016--after the election but before the Trump presidency began--I was in mind of Peter Hitchens's wonderful line: "In between the catastrophe and the calamity, we may as well have a glass of champagne."

So I figured it was time to turn our minds away from politics and have a little fun: THE 2016 PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT!!!!!

Our hunting-party included everyone who RSVPed, friends old and new: Madame de la Stafford Thornton, Madame de la Vangel Malek, P Diddy, Rupert Murdoch and the lovely Megyn Kelly, Messire Whipple, Messire Walter Lawrence Weaksauce--what a fetching chain, sir--Messire Guillaume, Messire Hoberman, JP's co-heads of security Messrs. Miller and Dailey, Messire Polk, Agreeable Louis J., Assertive Emmanuel J., JP's gamekeeper Olivier de Baliviere, Young Leo J., Intrepid Stella A., Mlle. Armstrong, Palmerwood mead-master Miller, Prince Salim bin Salman al-Saud, Madame de la Butler Koontz, and finally, Madame de la Agah Potthast, astride one of the Palmerwood polled prize wild boars. She's the only one who requested to be mounted.

Um. Gosh, that was awkward. That is to say, she's the only one who wanted to ride something.

Oh good God's urge, this simply isn't being expressed well.

Well, anyhow. Tally-ho! LET THE GREAT HUNT BEGIN!!!!





Fortunately, I kept a journal of the Great Hunt of '16. Here's my dispatch from Day Two of the 2016 Palmerwood Great Hunt:

THE FIRST FIELD-DISPATCH FROM THE PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT '16,
"Perhaps we should have warned the guests that the game here at Palmerwood isn't exactly what they're used to. The mammoth's appearance incited panic in Messrs. Polk and Weaksauce, both of whom fled shrieking like six-year-old girls with their pigtails caught in a paper shredder. I take no pleasure in chronicling their pusillanimity, in spite of the fact that both of them have busted my balls unmercifully over the many years of our acquaintance. No pleasure at all. Really. None.

"I am pleased to report that the mammoth didn't rattle Madame de la Stafford Thornton, who kept mixing drinks like a trooper, or Messrs. Hoberman and Guillaume, who combated the beast valiantly, if ineffectively, although it did cause Madame Vangel Malek some consternation. And my boys, Assertive Emmanuel J. and Agreeable Louis J., maintained the cool head and steely eye for which we Palmers are justly famed. 'Gotta defend my godmother, Pop," Assertive Emmanuel J. said. 'She holds my eternal soul in the palm of her hand.'

"Near tragedy struck, however, when the great beast trampled both Rupert Murdoch and the lovely Ms. Megyn Kelly. 'Medic!' I howled. 'The lovely Ms. Megyn Kelly has been trampled by a mammoth! She's got blood coming out of her eyes! Blood coming out of her... wherever!' But the Good Lord and all the saints be praised, it looks like the both of them will pull through."




THE SECOND FIELD-DISPATCH FROM THE PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT '16:

"Great zounds, but the unexpected arrival of a woolly rhino escalated things quickly. I was just certain my gamekeeper, Oliver DeBaliviere, had cleared the pesky things out of the far northern reaches of the estate, but apparently he missed a few. Well, now he's going to be missing his holiday bonus.

"The great beast burst out of the bosky and immediately thundered after Madame de la Agah Potthast's prize polled Palmerwood wild boar. Apparently woolly rhinos are a little territorial. Thank the good Lord and all the saints I was there to get between them, or we might have lost a fine hog. And Madame de la Agah Potthast, too, very likely. I was glad to be able to do it, but now my tuchus is killing me, and Doctor Pooley insists he's too drunk to apply any Bactine to the afflicted area.

"I was pleased by the bravery of Messrs.Guillaume, Hoberman, and Miller, in spite of the fact that their actions to stop the beast were completely ineffective. And my crack security team, Messrs. Miller and Dailey, went and got themselves snagged by a thunderbird. Seems my doughty gamekeeper missed a few of those, too. And I was a little surprised to see Ms. Armstrong fleeing in terror, although I did overhear her saying, 'Man, do I hate skirts. I coulda run much faster in jeans.'

"Tragically enough, Rupert Murdoch got stomped yet AGAIN by yet ANOTHER massive Pleistocene beast. Twice in one hunt! What are the odds?

"All in all... not our finest hour in the field."





In retrospect, I should have mentioned to Mmes.Vangel Malek, Butler Koontz, and Stafford Thornton that taking a break from the hunt to go strolling through the woods is a bad idea when Pleistocene cave-bears have been spotted in the vicinity.

Were it not for the presence of Intrepid Stella A. and her falcon, JP shudders to think what could have been.

How Intrepid Stella A. managed to dispatch a Pleistocene cave-bear armed only with a falcon JP hasn't quite figured out. Some questions are better left unasked.





THE THIRD FIELD-DISPATCH FROM THE PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT '16:

"Great zounds, what a day. Some of the gentlemen--Messrs. Whipple, Weaksauce, Miller, Guillaume, and Assertive Emmanuel J.--ventured into the bleak and rugged uplands in the far north-northwest quadrant of the Estate in search of game. Messire Weaksauce decided to don a kilt of Campbell Blackwatch -not sure why) and, so say his comrades' reports, spent most of the day strutting around yelling, 'HEY, EVERYONE! COME SEE HOW GOOD I LOOK!!.' He did look good, I'm bound to admit.

"The gentlemen first encountered a glyptodont--a much larger relative of the armadillo. Messire Miller, well-soused on mead and Boone's Farm, attempted to befriend it, while Messire Guillaume, with his customary valiance, leapt atop the brute and attempted to pummel it to smithereens. I must have a word with him about the advisability of attempting to pummel Pleistocene megafauna to smithereens. It's rarely successful. Particularly if they have shells.


"However, thus distracted, they were unprepared for the appearance of a pair of sabre-tooth cats. Were it not for Assertive Emmanuel J.'s insistence that he be allowed to bring along his rocket-launcher (a birthday present from his grandmother), I shudder to think what may have befallen our brave fellow-hunstmen.

"I am heartened, however, by Assertive Emmanuel J.'s gift for snappy repartee in the face of almost certain doom. I'm informed that, as the great cats snarled and roared, the rascally young hound grinned, said, 'Now there's some pussy worth grabbin'!' and dispatched the brutes. The lad's a chip off the old block."

THE FOURTH FIELD-DISPATCH FROM THE PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT '16:

"Upon hearing that the Serpentine Pheasants were nesting out on the vast and rolling Plains of Palmerwood, some of the chaps headed off to bag some. Had they only checked with my doughty gamekeeper, Oliver de Baliviere, he would have informed them that the adjective 'serpentine' does not refer to the pattern on their plumage. He might also have parlayed the information that nesting always makes the birds a bit tetchy.

"One of them tried to fly off with my co-head of security, Messire Dailey. This is the second time a large bird has tried to make off with him this trip. And my other co-head of security, Messire Miller, dashed off in search of more ammunition (so he said). However, the ever-valiant Messrs. Hoberman and Guillaume once again employed their tag-team strategy of grabbing the creature and attempting to pull it to earth, and leaping astride the beast and attempting to pummel it to smithereens. It's a fine strategy. I'm sure they'll perfect it soon.

"Messire Polk tried staring one of the things down. Interesting approach. Luckily, Doctor Pooley was on hand to patch him up afterward. I'm concerned about the doctor lately. He may be overworked. He's been stumbling over things, slurring his words, and his eyes are quite red, and he keeps mumbling things like, 'These imbeciles make me want to drink myself to death.' Strange sentiment to have on such a joyous outing as the annual Great Hunt. As soon as it's over, I'll send him on a nice vacation. The fourth floor of the southwest wing of the mansion is lovely this time of year."

THE FINAL FIELD-DISPATCH FROM THE PALMERWOOD GREAT HUNT '16:

"Well, it's been magical, but all good things--like 'Mr. Belvedere,' the greatest television program in history--must come to an end, and the Great Hunt is no exception. We gathered in the Great Hall of the Millam Hunting-Lodge in the northern reaches of the estate to reminisce, share stories, and, mostly, drink.

'Messrs. Guillaume and Hoberman continue to practice their tactics, Messire Weaksauce and Mlle.Armstrong, once again clad in her beloved flannel, relaxed on the mission-style sofa, remembering their high-school days, Messire Polk took great pride in showing Messire Diddy the two-headed carnivorous pike he once caught in Palm Lake, Messire Miller and Mme Stafford Thorntondiscussed the brewing and serving of liqueurs; Messrs. Miller and Dailey congratulated themselves on yet another expedition without their boss getting killed, Assertive Emmanuel J. and Agreeable Louis J. enjoyed a leisurely chess-game, and everyone else mostly got tanked.

"I honestly can't recall if we bagged even a single creature this year, but that just means there'll be more to shoot next year. How I love the annual Autumn Great Hunt. We Palmers have been hosting it for 415 years, and I think there were fewer fatalities this year than ever. We haven't located Megyn Kelly yet, but I'm sure she's fine. Meantime, I'm toying with the idea of holding a spring Great Hunt in 2017.

"Well, time to toddle off to bed. Tomorrow, the guests will retire their Palmerwood hunting-tweeds, riding-boots, and ghillie-brogues for the season and will all fly home on the luxurious Palmerwood G-6 private jet, and in any case, I'm soused. Excelsior!"

Well, that was it for the Great Hunt of 2016. We'll report more come 2018, when I plan to hold another gala sporting-event that will, most likely, result in no animal deaths, but a great deal of inebriation.

Stories Without Pictures, Chapter 2: A Hilly Comes A-Calling

Here's the second in the installment of Stories Without Pictures. It's a transcript of a recent telephone-call I had...

A HILLY COMES A-CALLING

I was sitting at home in my palatial, oak-paneled library at Palmerwood, sipping Auld MacBlechantochuan, and lingering over the naughtier passages in the "Decameron," when Cubbings approached with the phone.

"Mrs. Clinton, sir," he murmured.

"Oh, good God's urge, tell 'er I'm out. Or dead," I snarled. But Cubbings was adamant.

"She says it's urgent, sir," he said firmly.

"Damn it to heck," I muttered, grabbing the phone. "Remind me to flog you later, Cubbings."

"I live to serve, sir," Cubbings said, and withdrew soundlessly.

I took the phone, and, wincing preemptively, groaned, "Hello?"

Having already braced himself, I was glad I did.

"JIMMEEEEEE!" squawked the phone in tones redolent of something between a foghorn and a crow. "How are you? Did you vote for me? How are your lovely children? Sylvia, Lenny, Maxie, and, uh, Lorax? And your lovely wife, The Armenian?"

I wasn't sure whether I was more repelled by the voice or more nauseated by the blatant insincerity of her inquiries about my family.

"Oh, we're well, Hilly, thanks for asking," I said weakly, casting desperately around for a reason to end the conversation. "How've you been? I know the last few weeks have been rough."

"Oh, you know," blared the phone, "yeah, that was rough. But Huma and I were able to get down to Myrtle Beach for a little R and R."

"Myrtle Beach? Classy. You and Huma?"

"No, Bill."

"You said Huma."

"No I didn't."

"What can I do for you, Hilly?" I asked, gesturing furiously at Cubbings for more Scotch. I had the sinking feeling that this isn't going to be a quick call.

"Well, I'm glad you asked!" the phone cawed. "You and I are old friends, right, Jimmy? I mean, we go way back, don't we?"

"Look, Hilly," I said slowly and cautiously. I know enough to know when I'm about to get shook down, "I was glad to be able to kill Vince FOster for you--I always thought he was a zombie--and of course, I love partying with Marc Rich, but..."

"Good!" she brayed, and then her voice dropped to a conspiratorial rasp. "I knew I could count on you, Jimmy. You're my rock. Now listen, James, I need a favor...."

I gritted my teeth, waiting for Hillary to ask for her "favor."

"JP, Mrs. Clinton rasped, trying to whisper and failing pretty badly, "I'm in need of a swashbuckling, debonair, international daredevil who knows Russia inside and out and who has all kinds of highly-placed connections to perform a top-secret mission for me."

"You've got to be kidding me," I said. "Top secret mission? Hilly, you don't have any official capacity. You're not an elected official anymore. You don't hold any appointed positions. You're unemployed. Go knit something. Or take up gardening. Or ballroom dancing. Just retire already."

"But I'm a Clinton!" she barked. "That's official enough! Just being a Clinton is enough to get anyone to do anything I want! It's like being a Bush! Or a Kennedy! JUST DO THE DAMNED MISSION!"

"Well, it does sound right up my alley," I mused, half-tempted. It had been a while since I'd performed any high-stakes international espionage derring-do, and I was worried about getting rusty. Also, I was getting a little low on my favorite vodka, "Ol' One-Eyed Bolshevik Ivan's Blood of the Imperialist Capitalist Exploiters," and I was wondering if I called my old pal Vlad ahead of time, he couldn't have a couple of cases ready for me at Sheremetevo Airport.

"I'm listening, Hilly," I said. "Precisely what kind of unofficial top-secret mission for me do you have in mind?"

I must admit to being a little surprised when Hillary made her request.

"JP," Mrs. Clinton whispers, "I need you to sneak into Russia and bring back definitive proof that the Russians hacked the election for Trump."

There followed quite a long pause, which I ended by saying, "But there isn't any."

"Sure there is!" she bellowed. "Haven't you been watching the news?"

"Yeah, I've been watching the news," I snapped, grabbing a small marble statuette of Atticus Aristide Palmer, his great-great-great uncle off its pedestal and throwing it at Cubbings. "It's all just a long string of, 'Unnamed Sources Have Strong Reason to Believe,' and 'Intelligence Sources Now Think,' but there's zero proof. It's all just partisan hypothesis and conjecturing and grandstanding, and not one goddamn piece of solid evidence has yet been brought forward. Zero. There's just a bunch of phony outrage in the press. And from you."

"WHAT ABOUT THE CIA??!?" she roared.

"The CIA?" I snickered. "That bunch of geniuses with all their 'definitive proof of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq'? That bunch of twits who took eleven years to find Bin Laden? Honestly, Google Earth can show me chicks nude-tanning on the roof in Amsterdam, but the CIA can't find a six-foot, five inch Arab on dialysis whose face just happens to be on every milk-carton and hummus-container from Manhattan to Malaysia? Those Keystone Kops? Don't make me laugh. Come on, there are seventeen different intelligence agencies, and not even all of them agree on this. The CIA finds what the president tells them to find. You know it. I know it."

"How do you know about the Google Earth images of naked women sunbathing in Amsterdam?" Hillary asked.

"So I'm told," I said hurriedly, furiously gesturing to Cubbings to clear his search history. I began to sense the conversation going off the rails, so I tried to refocus Hillary.

"So let's recap, Hilly," I sighed. "You want the American people to believe that the Russians wrote a special, secret line of hacking-code that only the Russians or their stooges can use."

"Yes," she brayed.

"And they gave this super-secret code to Guccifer 2.0, a Romanian, and he used it to hack the DNC's servers, your personal email server, and John Podesta's and Colin Powell's personal email accounts."

"That's right," she cawed.

"And then Guccifer 2.0 turns all those juicy emails over to Wikileaks and DC Leaks, so that Julian Assange, another Russian patsy, who just happens to be under house arrest in the Ecuadorian Embassy in London, can make it public."

"Yes," she squawked.

"And Julian Assange does this all at the behest of the shadowy, sinister Vladimir Putin, who, sitting spider-like in his lair at the Kremlin, directs all that is secret and skullduggerous across the planet with well-nigh Godlike omnipotence--all so his BFF Donald Trump can get elected."

"That's right," she honked.

"And that's how the Russians 'hacked' the American election, right?" I groaned. I suddenly had a pain in my lower back and felt a headache coming on. "That and some fake stories on Twitter, right?"

"Bingo," she screeched dulcetly. "And can you also find some proof that James Comey at the FBI is working for the Russians, too? And also Mitch McConnell? And Rex Tillerson, too?"

"Hilly," I said, "you do realize that that is some tinfoil hat-level conspiracy theory, don't you?"

"JUST FIND THE PROOF!!!" she bellowed.

"Good God's urge, Rodham," I snarled, "THERE ISN'T ANY. IT DIDN'T HAPPEN. Listen, do you want to know the real reason you lost? Seriously? Class, race, Russians, coal-miners, James Comey, Pussygate, blah blah blah. You really want to know why you lost the election?"

I took a deep breath, an even deeper gulp of Old MacBlechantochuan, lit another Cohiba, and barreled ahead.

"You really want to know why you lost the election, Hilly?" I said again. "Simple. NOBODY LIKES YOU."

"What are you talking about?" she bleated. "Obama said I was likable enough!"

"Well, he lied," I said flatly. "Look, American politics is a popularity contest. It;s unfortunate, but there it is. It just is. Americans don't really care about policy positions, or personal political philosophy, or character, or qualifications."

"But I went to Yale Law Schoo.."

"Doesn't matter. Americans vote for whom they like. Reagan--brains of a peacock, but he was folksy, avuncular, good with a quip. Mondale, unquestionably smarter and more honest, was as grim as a tombstone. Your husband is likable. Bob Dole came across as the crabby old man trying to send back his meatloaf at the early-bird special at Applebee's because it's too salty."

"But I was Secretary of...."

"Doesn't matter. Dubya couldn't find his ass with both hands, but he presented as the kinda guy you could have a beer with. Gore, unquestionably brighter and more qualified, campaigned like a fresh corpse. Nobody liked him. Even after Dubya got us into two completely pointless wars under false pretenses, he STILL beat John Kerry, who had the face of a horse and the personality of an unlikable horse, in spite of the fact that he was a smarter, better, and far more competent guy."

"But I..."

"DOESN'T MATTER, I keep telling you. Obama had the deck stacked against him--black AND liberal?--but McCain came across as crabby as Dole, only with hemorrhoids. Nobody liked him. Mitt Romney--who doesn't want to punch that smug prick in the kisser? So Obama won again, because he's funny, and cool under fire, and classy."

"But I..."

"And Trump was entertaining as hell. 'Little Marco,' 'Yeah, 'cause you'd be in jail,' 'WRAAAWWWWNNNG,' like it or not, the guy had some great TV moments. That stuff plays in America the Dumb. You just came across as elitist, hectoring, secretive, shrill, and artificial. All your one-liners sounded scripted--most likely by that putz Borowitz--and rehearsed. He sounded off the cuff and genuine. Would you have been the better president? Hell yes. Is he a trainwreck in a suit? No question. But Hilly... NOBODY LIKES YOU. It's just that simple."

I waited, bated breath, for Hillary to respond.

"So you don't think the Russians hacked my campaign?" she finally rasped.

"Nope," I said. "Matter of fact, the only campaign that got sabotaged in 2016 was the Democratic primary, when you screwed Bernie."

Hillary was silent for a long moment. It was one of the sweetest moments of my life.

"So you're not going to sneak into Russia and bring back definitive proof that the Russians hacked my campaign?" she growled.

"I am not," I trilled. "I might go anyhow--it's been a while since I hung out with the Rotenberg brothers at their dacha in Odessa, and that's always a party, but nope, I'm not accepting your mission."

Hillary chewed on this for another long minute.

"So I'm probably not gonna be president?" she gritted.

"Probably not, no," I said.

"Well, can I have a couple million for my Foundation?" she finally got around to asking.

"Will it get you off the phone with me?" I grumbled. It's a small price to pay.

"As soon as you like!"

"I'll have Cubbings drop off the check in the morning," I said wearily. And then I hung up. 

Stories Without Pictures, Chapter 1: The Distress-Call

Drawrin' pictures is hard work, and every so often, I post a Stupid Status Update Serialized Adventure (TM) on the Intersocial Medianet-Webs that doesn't have any illustrations.

There have been a bunch of them, but here's the first. Even without pictures, I still think it's pretty funny.

"THE DISTRESS-CALL"

I had a bad feeling about the distress signal that my pilot received as my luxurious private G-6 winged its way over Central Asia.

This is how irritating adventures generally begin.

Nevertheless, it would be caddish to ignore a cry for help, so I reluctantly gave the order to alter course and see who the hell was in trouble this time.

One makes sacrifices in order to be a Selfless Defender of the Republic.

My pilot informed me that the distress call was coming from Uighur-Abad in Kyrgyzstan.

Uighur-Abad? For some reason, that rang a bell. I hurriedly flipped through the card-file in my Mind-Palace. A wave of the most ominous, shadowy dread washed over my soul. I couldn't remember any halfway decent hotel-bars, restaurants, or tailors in that part of the world.

On the other hand, I thought, there may very well be a hidden stash of my favorite vodka, "Ol' One-Eyed Ivan's Blood of the Imperialist Capitalist Exploiters." They stopped making it in '93, and worldwide stocks are dwindling. But you never know. There might be a case or seven hidden in one of those old Soviet outposts. The trip may not be a total loss.

My luxurious G-6 private plane touched down at Osh Airport in a howling blizzard. I checked my very sophisticated GPS distance satellite-map thingies, and my eagle-eyes narrowed as I looked at all the blinky-blinky lights.

It was ten miles from Osh to Uighurabad, from whence the distress signal emanates.

"Ten miles in this part of the world could take a day or more," I mused to myself, as I lit a hand-rolled Cuban Cohiba with my grandfather's antique sliver lighter, "and that's in optimal driving conditions. I wonder how long it would take me by... another form of transportation."

Having been fortunate enough to make the acquaintance of a Kyrgyz fur-trader over a few glasses of "Uncle Genghis's Top-Notch Koumiss" in the airport bar, I was now properly insulated against the Central Asian blizzards. I'd bartered my way into a smashing ensemble: a floor-length coat of snow-leopard fur with matching shapka* and gloves.

"No reason why we can't look good--and, dare I say it, damned good--while answering a distress signal in the wilds of Central Asia," I thought to myself, catching sight of my own reflection in a shop-window, and preening just a tad.

Checking my GPS satellite blinky thing, I clambered atop a Bactrian camel and took a quick mental inventory. "Ten miles to Uighurabad on a camel in a blizzard, three Cohibas, a hip-flask of 'Auld Blechaintoshan,' scotch, a slight buzz from that koumiss, an Amex platinum card, a fully-loaded .44 Magnum Desert Eagle, and I'm wearing sunglasses," I thought. Not optimal, but I've been in worse situations. "Avanti."

But it wasn't long before I found myself in a tight spot.

The raging blizzard through which I was struggling on my way from Osh to Uighurabad suddenly took a turn for the worse. Howling winds whipped the skirts of my newly-acquired floor-length snow-leopard coat... ice and snow rent my flesh like knives.

Tragically, I was forced to go full "Han Solo and the Taun-Taun" on my Bactrian camel, gut the thing, and crawl inside its rib-cage.

Morosely, I fired up a Cohiba, took a swig of "Auld MacBlechaintochan 18-year," peered out from his makeshift dead camel shelter, and wondered, for the thousandth time, who's been sending that distress signal from Uighurabad.

The blizzard blew itself out, and, slightly footsore and smelling vaguely of camel-innards, but still looking absolutely smashing, I sidled into the town of Uighurabad in the former Soviet Republic of Kyrgyzstan, from whence the distress signal came.

It's a mighty depressing place. There are a few Soviet-era concrete monstrosities still clawing the Central Asian sky... a few tired-looking and poorly-stocked shops... a run-down mosque... a few old men huddled around the statue of Josef Stalin shaking hands with Manas, the legendary Kyrgyz national hero, in the town square.

I checked my GPS beepy blinky thing. The distress signal, whoever was sending it, appeared to be coming from behind a low ridge of hills just west of town.

"Off we go," I muttered to myself. "In the service of God, country, and my fellow-man, forward the battalions."

My crack security/extraction-team--an accessory no self-respecting international gentleman of fortune and intrigue should ever be without--seemed unavoidably delayed, so bravely on I forged.

I tracked the distress signal on my beepy blinky GPS thingy out of Uighurabad, over the low ridge of rocky escarpment west of Uighurabad to a jagged crack in the stones. It appeared to lead to a cave.

Cautiously, I stuck my head into the cave. A thick, musty odor of rot and decay filled my nostrils... a sound like muffled weeping tickled his ears. Who--or what--could possibly be inside???

Squinting into the darkness of the cave, I saw a huge, shaggy form curled into the fetal position on the rough stone floor. Its body trembled, racked with sobs. The stench was well-nigh overpowering--my eyes began to water.

Suddenly, the thing, sensing my presence, leapt to its feet and spun around, and I saw its horrible visage:

A hulking, brutish, simian form; a broad, flat face; a feral, snarling mouth; tiny, beady eyes, glittering with tears, under a heavy, jutting brow; a thick coat of shaggy, filthy, matted orange fur.

"Donald?" I said, recognizing my fellow filthy-rich plutocrat. "Good God's urge, this is the first time I've ever been disappointed that it WASN'T a yeti. What in the name of common sense are you doing here?"

I recoiled bit as the Trump-beast lumbered toward me. Don't laugh, you would too. The stench of unwashed Trump could give the average burning landfill a run for its money.

"Donald, what are you doing here?" I repeated, holding my lilac-scented, monogrammed linen handkerchief to my aristocratic nostrils as Trump, sobbing, embraced me. "Aren't you supposed to be blowharding your way through a Republican debate tonight?"

"Yeah, that's why I've been hiding out in a cave in Kyrgyzstan!" the Trump-thing wailed. "I've been hiding out here wishing the whole thing would just... go away! JP, I don't want to be President! I never did! I'm a complete buffoon, and I know it! But it's outta my control now. You gotta help me, man! You gotta figure some way to get me OUT of this thing!"

I reluctantly handed the shaggy, stinking Trump my last Cohiba and my hip-flask. I detest the man, but there's solidarity among One Percenters.

"It started as a gag," Trump muttered. "I was drinking with Barry Diller and David Geffen at the last Palmerwood hunting-party and I got lit up and they dared me to run for President. What the hell, I said. Sounds like a gas.

"But God help me... I started WINNING. JP, I've done everything to get out of it. I've said I'm gonna keep Mexicans out with a giant wall. I said Megyn Kelly was mean to me because she was on her period. I made fun of a handicapped reporter. I made fun of John McCain. I got Sarah Palin to endorse me, for Chryssakes. THAT should have been the kiss of death right there."

He turned to me, desperation in his piggy little eyes.

"But NOTHING WORKS," he moaned. "I keep rising in the polls! America the Stupid just eats up all my kooky with a spoon! The loonier I act, the more of a jerkoff I am, the bigger the total assclown I act like, this stupid country can't get enough of me! Hell, I even said I could shoot somebody and not lose supporters, AND I GOT A FIVE PERCENT BUMP IN IOWA!!!! What the HELL do I have to do to get out of this race, fellate ISIS on 'America's Got Talent'?! I'll do it if you think it'll work. Don't think I won't."

I couldn't help but feel a sneaking sympathy for The Donald.

"I get it," I commiserated. "Good God's urge, the outrageous, offensive stuff I post on Facebook about politics, Ann Coulter, religion, football, you--great zounds, I tick myself off, and I think I've been unfriended twice. And a lot of my friends are from Indiana. Some of them are in the clergy. Many of them are deeply conservative. Trust me, I get it."

"Yeah, good for you," the matted, reeking Trump-beast growled. "But what am I supposed to do?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I pulled out my mobile, opened up the CNN app, and the two of us anxiously watched the results of the Iowa Caucus now coming in.

"So what's happening?" Donald rasped. "What's going on?!?"

"Well, good news and bad news," JP says. "Good news is Bernie's closing the gap on Slick Hilly."

"Did I ever tell you about the threeway I had with Hilly and Donna Shalala?" the Trump beasts mused. "Boy, you talk about feeling like a third wheel. It was almost like they wished I wasn't there. What's the bad news?"

"Bad news is it looks like you might win," JP says. "But I think I have a plan anyhow."

I mulled it over. "You know what..." I said, "Yes.... yes, I think... you know, it's so crazy that it just... might... WORK."

I turned my attention back to the results of the Iowa Caucus coming on my mobile and snorted scornfully as I read the morning's headlines.

"What? What now?" Trump grunted from underneath the layer of crusted grime coating his shaggy bulk. "Did I win?"

"Nope, you came in second to Ted Crazed," I said. "I'm just laughing about this headline: 'Hillary Breathes "Huge Sigh of Relief" After Tie in Iowa.'"

"What's she got to be relieved about?" Trump wondered, scratching his chest absently and dislodging a chunk of calcified filth.

"Presumably, she's relieved at being able to leave Iowa untarred, unfeathered, and not on a rail," I answered. "But hold on.... I'm just about to put my idea into motion."

I tapped on my mobile, hit "send," and smiled up at Trump, who glared back at me.

"What are you doing on that stupid phone, Palmer?" he grunted, and scratched his rump, dislodging the few shreds of his trousers which remained there. "I came in second in Iowa, but I'm still in the race, and Huckabee, Santorum, and Rand Paul all dropped out today! You're supposed to be getting me OUT of this thing, not playing Angry Birds or looking at FoxNewsGirlsGoneWild.com or whatever it is you're doing!"

"Calm yourself, Donald," I replied, in my soothing baritone voice. God, is it soothing, that voice of mine. Feels like someone pouring warm syrup on your bare flesh. Next to me, Barry White sounds like Fran Drescher with emphysema. "Taken care of. You'll be toast in no time."

"What?" Trump bellowed, jumping up and down in a manner oddly redolent of an orangutan having a seizure. "What? How? What did you do???"

"I just nominated you for the Nobel Peace Prize," I grinned, folding my arms in satisfaction. "Texted a few friends in Sweden, called in some favors. It's in. You've been nominated. Heck, you might even win. If Henry Kissinger can win it after wiping Cambodia off the map, you've got a real shot at it."

Trump, dumfounded, suddenly burst out laughing, "You're KIDDING!" he bellows. "It.. it's GENIUS!"

I hate to look immodest, but I had to agree. In a political party whose entire foreign policy boils down to "bomb everything until it stops moving," winning the Nobel Peace Prize could have been the kiss of death for the Donald's campaign.

I checked my beepy-blinky satellite GPS thingy, which had suddenly begun going off like a string of firecrackers. Well, what do you know. My crack security-team had finally shaken off their hangovers, and decided to come looking for me, after a week or so. I resolved to have a stern chat with Mssrs. Dailey and Miller. Once I'd had a few drinks himself. It gets thirsty in Central Asia.

"Coming, Trump-Brute?" I asked. "I'm going to call for my plane and then continue on to Switzerland, which is where I was going when I got your distress signal. I need to drop some watches off at La Chaux-de-Fonds to get serviced. Come on, we'll stop in Monaco, get you cleaned up, pop into Le Saint-Benoit and grab a steak, what do you say? You've been living on raw cave-rats for two weeks now."

"Nah, you go on," the Trump-beast said. "I'm gonna wait until my poll-numbers drop some more. Also I'm gonna sue Cruz for screwing me in Iowa. No way I lost to that jagoff."

My eyes shot open in bewilderment, but I decided not to press the issue. I had done what I could to get Trump out of the race. The rest... was up to fate.

"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."