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I Don't Need You People

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360 Tour: Inside The RNC

The Onion invites you to explore our view from the floor of the 2016 Republican National Convention in Cleveland.

Good Guy With Gun, Bad Guy With Gun Both Excited To Unload Firearm In Crowd Outside Arena

CLEVELAND—As each of them looked around at the people gathered outside Quicken Loans Arena and fantasized about unholstering their weapon and taking aim directly at others, both a good guy with a gun and a bad guy with a gun attending the Republican National Convention reportedly worked themselves into a heightened state of excitement Thursday at the thought of unloading their firearm into the crowd.

Bob Dole Picked Off By Large Hawk Circling Arena Parking Lot

CLEVELAND—Describing how the bird of prey suddenly dived down from the sky at high velocity, sources confirmed Thursday that former GOP presidential nominee Bob Dole was picked off by a large red-tailed hawk circling above the Quicken Loans Arena parking lot.
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I Don't Need You People

That's it. I've finally had it up to here. Yet another pitiful excuse for a nurse has been hired for me, again without my approval. She's just a young wisp of a girl, and very sensitive to boot: Scold her in the slightest, and she dissolves into hysterics. Just to-day, I barked at her to pop one of my eyes back into place, and she dashed out of my bed-chamber, tears gushing down her face.

Well, the hell with that. And the hell with you all! I don't need anyone's aid to get by. I'm T. Herman Zweibel, world-famed publisher of The Onion news gazette. I practically invented the notion of self-reliance. So I'm running away from home and will leave no forwarding address. So long, you bastards!

I know what you're thinking: "The man is 127 years old and doesn't even have complete fore-arms. How will he survive?" I intend to live simply and close to the earth, just as I did during my rugged pioneer boy-hood. I'll just take along some flour, some hard-tack, a three-legged stool, and some ocelot-skins for clothing. Didn't think I could do it, did you?

I suppose I'll also need my musket to shoot game. And kitchen matches, too. I'd better summon Standish to get them from the larder. Wait, I can't do that, for he'll wonder why I need them, and, being a sharp man-servant, he'll put two and two together and realize I intend to run away. I will have to make fire by banging flinty rocks together. And I'll need a plough. I'll have to borrow one from a farmer. I'll use my electrically-fired wheel-chair to pull the thing.

I will also require a velveteen cushion on which to rest my boil-covered bottom. And a daguerreotype of my blessed mother. Those will be my sole comforts as I set out alone into the harsh wilderness.

I realize that the out-of-doors is fraught with many a peril. The last time I was out-side, in 1923 I believe, I somehow got caught in a cotton-gin. I don't want to speak of it further.

Fare-thee-well, jokers, and good riddance. The last sound you will hear from me is that of my bed-chamber door closing behind me. That is, when I learn how to work the blasted door-knob.

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