The Final FrontierCommentary • ISSUE 36•46 • Dec 20, 2000 By T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911) Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Standish and I are currently hurtling away from the Earth in a giant metal rocket-ship. It turns out that the obelisk in which we were hiding as the murderous Society Of 800 Avenging Fists attacked my poor son N. Aeschylus was not an immobile object at all, but a powerful mortar-shell timed to automatically propel it-self from the Earth's grip. Standish tells me we are approaching the speed of light, and that N. Aeschylus, my son and creator of the device, set the vessel's coordinates to a place called the Andromeda Galaxy. In fact, Standish is transmitting this column to Earth on a ship-board wireless-radio. He says we are quickly losing contact with Earth, so I should make haste. Standish also claims that N. Aeschylus designed the rocket-ship so he could flee Earth after destroying my estate and slaying me in a bizarre ritual, but that he was thwarted by the surprise attack. Standish has always had some-thing against that sweet tot, and I don't know why. I would have Standish stoned to death if I were able-bodied. What-ever happens to us, I want the citizenry of the Republic to know that The Onion will always be in good hands. Should it turn out that my beloved heir N. Aeschylus succumbed to the ambush or to the intense heat-blast of the rocket-ship's engines, control of this news-paper must be granted to a joint directorship composed of Bernard Baruch and Aunt Jemima. I am confident that these two titans of American states-manship will adroitly guide The Onion into the 20th century. As for my readers, I will always look upon them with a combination of unconditional love and bottom-less hatred. All I ask is that you continue to solemnly observe Zweibelmas every Sept. 21. A few grief-crazed suicides in my name wouldn't hurt, either. For my part, I am already finding the rocket-ship's accommodations ingenious and pleasing. Standish has discovered some-thing called a "replicator," which can produce any-thing from enema-bulbs to cozy shawls, seemingly out of thin air. And, most wondrous of all, we found my old iron lung, with which the evil Mr. Tin absconded several years ago! It's in pristine condition, just as I remember it! A final gift from my ingenious and beloved son. I wonder how he knew. Come, Standish, come away from that wireless-radio and seal me into it. Yes, I think every-thing will be just dandy from here on in. Huzzah!