Articles by T. Herman Zweibel
Long life is the ardent desire of many. Indeed, some of you may achieve it, as I have. But once you find your-self out-living your pet Galapagos tortoise, you may do well to question your luck.
As you leaden-pated slow-coaches are too thick to realize that running a multi-tentacled news-paper empire takes an iron will and a strong stomach. If you do not exercise a certain low animal cunning with regard to your employees, occasionally put a business-rival to the garrote, and maintain a strong cash position, the Swiss will be running your news-paper in jig time!
July is the cruelest month for T. Herman Zweibel. My regular summer sabbatical usually falls during that month, and I find my-self as idle as a grass-hopper. Great blocks of ice have to be placed in my bed-chamber so my skin doesn't melt away in the oppressive heat. You see, most of my skin dropped off about 30 years ago, and was replaced with wax. It's true: I hired artisans from Madame Tussaud's to mold me the most robust Greco-Roman physique you could imagine. Sadly, mere weeks later, my wheel-chair was placed too close to a floor heating-vent, and in no time my beautiful body had liquefied into a great sticky pool. My servants patched me up as best they could, but to this day I look like a skeleton onto which some-one indiscriminately flung a combination of porridge and bird-shit.
Another swampish July will soon be upon us, bringing with it the promise of sweltering heat, golden pitchers of ice-cold lemon-ade administered to me in enema-form, and the nightmarish prospect of sunlight which lasts until nine o'clock at night. Monstrous! When I was a lad, it was dark from five in the evening until noon the next day, and the July temperature never exceeded fifty degrees on Professor-Doktor Fahrenheit's scale. I am certain that the world is hurtling ever closer to the Sun, overbalanced as it is on one side by the overbreeding of the fecund Hindoo, but at present there is little I can do about it.
From The Death-Bed Of T. Herman Zweibel, The Zweibel Estate.
My considerable ire was raised yet again this past week when I was subjected to the ignominy of an intrusion on my privacy, conducted by means of the insulting mechanical-tele-phone device, by a reporter calling from the infamous Gentle-Man's Quarterly Gazette.
To my universally celebrated works of drama, The Happy Bed-Chamber and The News-Paper Man And The Elves, I would like to add my third and most ambitious effort to date, The Syphilis-Crazed Young Norwegian Man.
I am informed by The Onion Editorial Board that the mountain of mail calling for my death is increasing once again. This is nothing new, as it becomes fashionable to lust for the death of T. Herman Zweibel when-ever the Swiss economy is running smoothly. It does not pay to anger the Gnomes of Zurich!
I hear that the tyrants in Washington are proposing than an enormous soft-wares and computing monopoly be broken up. The ladies must be broken-hearted that the soft-wares are in jeopardy. What lady does not relish the plush touch of ermine on her cheek, the airy intricacies of a panel of lace, or the cloud-like embrace of a velveteen settee? I pity the poor, weak-minded biddies. Thank God my fiancee, Miss Bernadette Fiske, did not live to see such trauma.
When a gentle-man reaches a certain age, he realizes that he must make preparations for the day he will finally pass from this world. For myself, that age was 66. Since I am now 132, I thought it only proper that I review my funeral arrangements, amending them if necessary. With this in mind, I sent for Beavers, my solicitor, thinking that and he and I could plan the required ceremony in a short hour or so.