Home At LastCommentary • ISSUE 35•17 • May 5, 1999 By T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911) For the first time in several months, I woke to find my-self back in my dank, urine-smelling bed-chamber at the Zweibel Estate. How glorious a sight to be-hold! For a second, I almost believed that my horrific experiences were but a terrible night-mare, yet I was almost mad with joy to be reunited with the many possessions I had once so taken for granted. Hello, big stuffed moose head! Hello, chafing-dish! Hello, meerschaum pipe! Hello, blotting paper! Hello, armoire! Hello, cupsidor! Hello, iron-lung! Hello, enema-bulb! Hello, socks! I wished to find out the latest developments in the wake of my rescue, so I summoned my man-servant Standish. I was pleased to receive the news that my nemesis and kidnapper, Black Scarlet, or as he is better known, "Freddie Mercury," had already been convicted in a swift trial and sentenced to 4,800 years in prison with no possible hope of parole. Apparently, this crushed his legions of fanatics and hangers-on, who had learned only recently that he was still alive. But I was jubiliant. Haven't I always insisted that all enemies of the Zweibels meet ignoble ends? How-ever, to my deep chagrin, the wicked ro-bot Mr. Tin, who supplied Black Scarlet with the where-abouts of my fortune, is still at large, and has not been seen since he fled the law with the assistance of fire-shooting propelling devices on the bottoms of his massive metal feet. Who knows what nefarious plans for revenge are whirling in his sinister metallurgical brain! Standish also told me that there was a victory parade in the village near the estate commemorating my triumphant home-coming. There were marching bands, horses, balloons, and ticker-tape, and I my-self was propped up on a float gayly decorated with magnolia boughs and colorful ribbons. Unfortunately, I was comatose at the time, and have no recollection of the event. A pity, as I love parades. I have decided to write a book about the traumatic events of these past few months. Standish suggested I give it the some-what droll title of Zweibel's Travels, but I prefer A Shocking True-Life Account Of My Sudden Plunge Into Poverty, My Grievous Exile, And My Subsequent And Thrilling Recovery And Restoration Of My Wealth, And How You Never Lifted A Single Finger To Help Me Even When I Was On Death's Very Door-step, You Filthy Cock-suckers. Yes, I'm talking about you! I learned many important lessons during my wanderings, but the one I shall remember most is that you are all a bunch of heart-less swine. Screw you all to the last man!