You Do Not Deserve MeCommentary • ISSUE 36•10 • Mar 22, 2000 By T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus (photo circa 1911) It has been brought to my attention that there are some members of my porcine reader-ship herd who do not realize that my column is the jewel in the Onion news-paper's tarnished crown, and call upon the current editors to remove it altogether. My response to them is the same as it is to all readers, whether they be cut-throat nay-sayers or members of my lick-spittle sycophantry: To Hell with the lot of you! You will live longer by feasting on your own fetid night-soil than by trying to appeal to the emotions of T. Herman Zweibel! I admit that my column is at least a partial failure. I have tried and tried to guide and influence you peasants with the harsh, printed truth. I could have used the much more cost-effective method of brightly colored propaganda posters and merry buntings, or had you economically manipulated by secret business-men's-clubs, or instructed Standish to have salt-peter dumped into the reservoirs, but as far as you know, I did not! No, I appealed instead to your primitive sense of rectitude. Yet you continue to ignore my writings in favor of columns by pussy cat loving women or near-illiterate ledger-accountants. You do not deserve to read my wisdom or the news-paper in which it is printed! Of course, you deserve only to have your still-burning bodies stretched on the rack by black-a-moors, but I have said so before. Had you listened to me, the rivers of this Republic would have run black with strip-mine tailings, her slums would have overflowed with oppressed ethnic types, her forests would have fallen before the ax, and her laborers would not spend so much time in elementary schools. Instead, very little progress has been made at all. I do not perform the service of writing this weekly column for my health, you should know! Far from it, as its dictation into the wire-recorder so saps the strength of my frail carcass that I inevitably succumb to coughing-fits worthy of the tuberculosis, occasionally causing several of my ribs to snap with a sound like wind-chimes. On the other hand, I do not write it for you under-men, either, as you consistently ignore my wishes by electing non-Whig Presidents, patronizing non-Onion advertisers, and allowing your women-folk to wear shoes. I write so that the sweet release of Death will find my life-long word-count far outstripping that of that shit-ass Hearst, and don't you forget it.