Articles by T. Herman Zweibel
In my young days, I could shit like a draft horse. But now, I can only coax a thin, yellowish gruel from my feeble colon, often without warning. Thus, I must be swathed in an oversized diaper at all times.
I have been informed that winter has been upon us for a good month now. It is during this long season that my thoughts invariably turn to my childhood so long ago in the Oregon Territory. My dominant memory of those times is of snow, snow and more snow. Snow whirling about in great billows; snow piled in huge, sloping drifts; snow coming to rest against the rough-hewn timbers and window-panes of my mother's boarding-house.
Reading from his enormous ledger book, my accountant informed me today that my decision to purchase the Almagamated Vulcanized Testicle Company had resulted in a considerable loss, and I had no choice but to sell. Drat the foul luck! Why isn't the fool public purchasing rubber testicles? They're easy to care for and jaunty-looking, and they emit a pleasant odor!
This Sunday past my nurse was reading me the comical cartoon amusement supplements. At first I was dead-set against the idea of such a supplement, when the space could be used for advertisements. But the idea grew on me, and now I have come to enjoy my favorite funny drawings and their droll foibles! My particular pets are the rotund lad who cannot stop eating and the lowborn Irish family who throws crockery at itself.
Another infant New-Year, bless its heart, is fast a-suckling upon the teat of its wet nurse. And I predict great things for this Year Of Our Lord 1913! For it is a great time to be an American and a plutocrat: The Zweibel coffers are full to bursting; I am the most respected and beloved gentleman in the Republic; and the Onion news-paper is selling like hotcakes, largely thanks to our new comical-strip-story feature, L'il Foodhole & His Billy Goat Juniper. That Juniper is always up to mischief, eating Mrs. O'Riley's laundry and such-like!
The other day, my manservant Standish and my nurse were wheeling in the multitudes of penny postcards and other handwritten wishes of good tidings that flood into my estate at this time of year. I insist on being read each and every one, so that I may duly reward each well-wisher with a sackful of sugar beets from the Zweibel ancestral home in Prussia.
I have been a newspaper-man all my life, and a principled one at that. Throughout my long career I have steadfastly refused to cater to the lowest common denominator. But I am also a business man, and enough of a realist to face the truth squarely in the eye. And the truth of the matter is that the American public is crying out for pornography. Pornography in the pages of The Onion! It's a sad state of affairs, but a strong and plentiful readership must be maintained. So here is some pornography for you, you filthy reprobates.
Leave it to my loathsome, wastrel offspring, J. Phineas, to screw up once more! Yesterday morning, I woke up and everything was pitch black. Not an unusual circumstance, as the curtains are drawn in my bedchamber at all times. But the air felt awfully close, and when I drew my hand to my throat it hit a hard, wooden surface just inches above my head. I had been buried alive yet again! That dimwitted physician of mine pronounced me dead, and my dunderheaded son believed it! Will he never learn?
I'm often asked about the role of technology in our society, and whether it is ultimately beneficial or destructive. My reply: Technology is a scourge which must be abolished! I know this first-hand, for, as of this writing, a vast army of mechanical men surrounds my estate, ready to wipe me off the map!
For sale! A secondhand buggy in fine and sturdy condition. Previous owner elderly invalid plutocrat. Pony not included. Reasonable terms. Kindly direct any and all inquiries to the Zweibel Estate.