Another year has come and gone. And what an eventful year it was! Among my many accomplishments: I published my long-awaited autobiography; unsuccessfully courted a young milk-maid; blackmailed President Harding; wrote a play; formed a foot-ball team; attempted suicide; and, perhaps most memorably, hired the terrifying mechanical ro-bot Mr. Tin to replace my walrus of a nurse, who abandoned me to join up with my hated nemesis, the rogue thief and highway-man Black Scarlet.
As is the annual custom, I will now present my list of my most noteworthy bowel movements of the past year. If you have a problem with it, you can kiss my bottom! After all, I've lived on this miserable orb for 132 years, and no-one, not even William Randolph Hearst, has had more bowel movements than myself, let alone such memorable ones.
Admittedly, the list has gotten considerably shorter of late, as I have not eaten in 28 years. In fact, I'm not exactly sure what it is I am extruding. But I do not wish to renege on the solemn pledge I made in these pages back in 1906: to make my bowel movements a matter of public record for all to see. This year's list is as follows:
Friday, March 28—Witnessed a comet streak through the heavens, and in terror spontaneously shat myself.
Tuesday, June 10—Standish fills in for my traitorous nurse. As he removes my diaper, he is buffeted by a powerful jet of pasty yellow fecal matter.
Monday, Oct. 6—A thin brownish dribble is the best I can coax from my ancient rectum. Oh, for the days of my youth, when my average daily yield could fertilize a good acre of sorghum!
Sunday, Dec. 7—God bless Augustus, my stable-boy! I caught him in my bed-chamber last night, trying to place some horse-shit in my diaper. He had hoped I would wake in the morning and think it was my doing, thereby restoring my spirits. I am truly fortunate to have such a thoughtful and faithful servant in my employ. He shall get a shiny nickel for his efforts!