Horoscopes – Serendipitous Shenanigans

Editor’s Note:  Although my serving whelp Sextus no longer attends to my bed side and in fact betrayed me in a most uncouth fashion, the little gypsy penned a remarkable number of so-called “horoscopes” during the weeks he was in my service.  In order to achieve some recompense in the meantime before he is dully apprehended and has his ankles broken to prevent any more flights of fancy, I have chosen to publish these otherwise blasphemous and ungodly fortunes within the pages of the hallowed Onion newspaper, as I have been told the masses are intrigued by them.  Profitable blasphemy is only the best kind, followed closely however by “blasphemous charades”.

I am told that today is the day that Horace Walpole first coined the term “serendipity” as derived from some manner of heathen faery tale.  The only true source of serendipity in mine own life is a surprise erection coupled with one of my buxom maids walking past.  It appears that just now Ms. Cannenbody has thrown caution to wind and dusted atwixt my bed side.  Work, damn you!  WORK!  Ah, well failed again.  She noticed a boil on my neck the size of Vermont and went off screaming for the Doctor again.  I need a goddamn exorcist for this particular malady I’m afraid.  Horoscopes will have to perform as a markedly less robust substitute.

Aries: (March 21-April 19)

You will radically change the way people look at fanny packs after a murder of crows attacks your crotch.

Taurus: (April. 20-May 20)

Although war, disease, and economic downturn plague everyone over the world, the flesh-eating rainbow trolls will only be after you.

Gemini: (May 21-June 21)

It is safe to say that by this time next week you have badly misjudged the demand for electrified horse testicles.

Cancer: (June 22-July 22)

There are few lives similar to yours but there are much fewer even in the ballpark of the life of your anus.

Leo: (July 23-Aug. 22)

A supermodel will be forced to marry you after you successfully turn the moon into green cheese.

Virgo: (Aug. 23-Sept. 22)

You feel you have made peace with your past indiscretions until your third-grade teacher shows up to your door with an axe.

Libra: (Sept. 23-Oct. 23)

You are all for aristocratic privilege until you find out that your position will be “Rectal Tongue Cleaner of the Nobility.”

Scorpio: (Oct. 24-Nov. 21)

Scorpio thinks Iron Maiden torture is over-hyped.  They’re not a great band, but they’re not that bad.

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

Though your coffee is good, your coworkers agree that your tea is better and your screwdriver is the best.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

You will leave your house buoyant and contented until you trip over the corpse of your gut shot mailman.

Aquarius: (Jan. 20-Feb. 18)

If you wanna rock, by all means rock. But lose the leather pants, Bon Jovi.

Pisces: (Feb. 19-March 20)

Your bold actions will change the outcome of the upcoming Stanley Cup series after you plow into the New Jersey Devils bench with a Zamboni.

Horoscopes: The Legend of Jack Jacobs

Editor’s Note:  Although my serving whelp Sextus no longer attends to my bed side and in fact betrayed me in a most uncouth fashion, the little gypsy penned a remarkable number of so-called “horoscopes” during the weeks he was in my service.  In order to achieve some recompense in the meantime before he is dully apprehended and has his ankles broken to prevent any more flights of fancy, I have chosen to publish these otherwise blasphemous and ungodly fortunes within the pages of the hallowed Onion newspaper, as I have been told the masses are intrigued by them.  Profitable blasphemy is only the best kind, followed closely however by “blasphemous charades”.

It is with no small portion of condescending bemusement that I would note that the first documented match of Canadian football was played on this date at the University of Toronto.  Of course, our republic was mired in Mr. Lincoln’s war at the time and far be it that our Gallic fur-trapping neighbors refrain from whimsy during such a time period.  I have more respect for solemn occasions, such as when I forbade the servants from defecating during the my father’s three month funerary rites.  I also buried their first-born within the tomb, but I feel that was more of an excuse to keep the surplus of labor down, lest the poor and downtrodden get restive in sufficient number. Horoscopes it is, then.

Aries: (March 21-April 19)

You will keep trying to render in water paint the mystical experience you had last Saturday, but it will keep looking like the amphetamine-fueled bukkake you had last Friday.

Taurus: (April. 20-May 20)

Your assertion that the FBI will hunt you down will become a self-fulfilling prophecy after you give three Arab men a hundred thousand dollars, two cars, and thirty pounds of ammonia sulfate.

Gemini: (May 21-June 21)

Though your contribution to nuclear physics isn’t on the level of Niels Bohr, it does make a tasty burger.

Cancer: (June 22-July 22)

You are ambiguous over the worth of your experience, as your experience is a 12 hour sex-a-thon with Japanese twins but involves sever chaffing, whiplash, and inner-ear damage due to high-pitched screaming.

Leo: (July 23-Aug. 22)

There’s no business like show business especially after you start your Living Actor and Actress Zoological Park.

Virgo: (Aug. 23-Sept. 22)

Although you will like you’re new plumbing, the pipes won’t be big enough to dispose of the violated corpse of Ozzie Canseco.

Libra: (Sept. 23-Oct. 23)

Your habit is smelly, unhealthy, and detrimental to those around you, and it is fairly evident that the exhausted panda didn’t enjoy it either.

Scorpio: (Oct. 24-Nov. 21)

All right, Scorpio admits it: you make a pretty mean corndog.

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

The extent of the frailty of your views on Kantian philosophy becomes evident when, by the sheer force of your stupidity, the German thinker is reincarnated purely in order to hit you with a shoe.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

In the burn unit you will tell doctors that your injuries didn’t result from your poor intellect, but the irresistible sexiness of the electrical outlet.

Aquarius: (Jan. 20-Feb. 18)

Your lawyer insists that you need corroborating evidence to be acquitted, but no matter how hard you beat the monkey, he’s not talking.

Pisces: (Feb. 19-March 20)

Your claim that better jazz could come out of your ass will come true when the Dixieland Trio rear ends you as you cross the street.

Horoscopes: The Great Moon Hoax

Editor’s Note:  Although my serving whelp Sextus no longer attends to my bed side and in fact betrayed me in a most uncouth fashion, the little gypsy penned a remarkable number of so-called “horoscopes” during the weeks he was in my service.  In order to achieve some recompense in the meantime before he is dully apprehended and has his ankles broken to prevent any more flights of fancy, I have chosen to publish these otherwise blasphemous and ungodly fortunes within the pages of the hallowed Onion newspaper, as I have been told the masses are intrigued by them.  Profitable blasphemy is only the best kind, followed closely however by “blasphemous charades”.

This recent talk of alien lifeforms has reminded of the Great Moon Hoax which caused my father to squander a vast fortune on a gigantic sign in upstate New York offering salutations to our supposed lunar neighbors.  Zweibels would have become a greater laughingstock than that moron Seward and his Alaska hoax had it not been for a timely looting epidemic that scourged the countryside, but which was subsequently put down by my Uncle (although it was possibly begun by the same Uncle; either that or indigent Jews).  No matter, for my own moon hoax continues forthwith under the auspices of these bogus predictions.  Sextus was no more prescient than that blathering idiot Nostradamus, although they both probably emitted the same curry-infused stench.

Aries: (March 21-April 19)

In the coming week, you should adhere to the rule that you should never whip your girlfriend with a loaded pistol.

Taurus: (April. 20-May 20)

After the Pagans burn your house down, you will rue the day you taught your gerbil how to ride a motorcycle.

Gemini: (May 21-June 21)

They laughed when you claimed you would diffuse nitrous oxide into the water supply.  Well, they’ll all be laughing their asses off as you easily steal their wallets.

Cancer: (June 22-July 22)

There is something to be said for punching a birthday clown in the face, especially when the clown is drunk and waving around a .38.

Leo: (July 23-Aug. 22)

Whoever said that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink never met you and your sledgehammer.

Virgo: (Aug. 23-Sept. 22)

The pine tree has stood on your property since the aging Indian Chief planted it as a memorial to his vanishing tribe, but you really need a new gunrack.

Libra: (Sept. 23-Oct. 23)

You’re wish to ask the world to dance if you had only the chance, and thus be dancing with yourself, would be mere fancy if you weren’t such a determined evil genius and didn’t own such a massive space probe.

Scorpio: (Oct. 24-Nov. 21)

Though your desire to have a pretty girl notice you is normal, firing a shotgun in the air is not the best way to go about it.

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

When life deals you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade, not pipe bombs.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

Your strict Amish pacifism will not preclude you from leveling the bank teller after he makes eye contact with your wife.

Aquarius: (Jan. 20-Feb. 18)

You’d host more backyard barbecues if they didn’t always involve so many live cattle and firearms.

Pisces: (Feb. 19-March 20)

Though you claim your nipples are hard enough to cut glass, Donny Glass, male prostitute, begs to differ.

Horoscopes: Uruguayan Independence Day

Editor’s Note:  Although my serving whelp Sextus no longer attends to my bed side and in fact betrayed me in a most uncouth fashion, the little gypsy penned a remarkable number of so-called “horoscopes” during the weeks he was in my service.  In order to achieve some recompense in the meantime before he is dully apprehended and has his ankles broken to prevent any more flights of fancy, I have chosen to publish these otherwise blasphemous and ungodly fortunes within the pages of the hallowed Onion newspaper, as I have been told the masses are intrigued by them.  Profitable blasphemy is only the best kind, followed closely however by “blasphemous charades”.

My God, the Uruguayans have independence!  When did this calamity come about?  1825?  What the hell year are we in presently?  Two thousand and what?  Are we not ruled by some sort of space-alien along the lines of the concoctions devised by H.G. Wells?  No?  A shame.  At least I knew how to conquer them.  Now if only I knew where I left my good kidney…

Aries: (March 21-April 19)

The black hole that has appeared in your toilet will quickly become a problem but at least you’ll know where your dog went.

Taurus: (April. 20-May 20)

Your “Highlander” outlook on hot dog vending hits a snag when the police find a number of severed heads in your cart and take away your sword.

Gemini: (May 21-June 21)

Your life’s purpose will be revealed when you accidentally put a hamburger between two Krispee Kreme doughnuts.

Cancer: (June 22-July 22)

Though your philosophical position will be rejected by most thinkers, Vice President Richard Cheney agrees with you that he is, in fact, the final source of truth on the planet.

Leo: (July 23-Aug. 22)

You’ve always considered yourself a man of action.  Society sees you as a man who just really enjoys Quaker Oats.

Virgo: (Aug. 23-Sept. 22)

After your clever explosive rigging, a fiery body will soar through the heavens next week and, although the mourners will express their rage, you’re sure Grandma would have wanted it that way.

Libra: (Sept. 23-Oct. 23)

You will win a substantial bet when CNN reluctantly airs footage of Wolf Blitzer running naked through a mine field as you chase him with an axe.

Scorpio: (Oct. 24-Nov. 21)

The fact that you’re attackers will be Eskimos isn’t the problem.  The problem is their drunkenness and concealed firearms.

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

Your policy recommendation will lose its veracity when you are told that the Fisher Effect has nothing to do with aquatic wildlife.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

The clock isn’t wrong.  You’ve been playing Tetris for three days.  And, yes, that tingling/burning sensation in your legs is gangrene.

Aquarius: (Jan. 20-Feb. 18)

After the horrific bloodshed of your “competition,” the federal government outlaws “koala football.”

Pisces: (Feb. 19-March 20)

Your flamboyant maroon shirt would be less eccentric but more acceptable if it was colored with synthetic dyes rather than baby goat’s blood.

Horoscopes: And a Fine Memorial Day to You, Good Sirs

Editor’s Note:  Although my serving whelp Sextus no longer attends to my bed side and in fact betrayed me in a most uncouth fashion, the little gypsy penned a remarkable number of so-called “horoscopes” during the weeks he was in my service.  In order to achieve some recompense in the meantime before he is dully apprehended and has his ankles broken to prevent any more flights of fancy, I have chosen to publish these otherwise blasphemous and ungodly fortunes within the pages of the hallowed Onion newspaper, as I have been told the masses are intrigued by them.  Profitable blasphemy is only the best kind, followed closely however by “blasphemous charades”.

This selection of horoscopes is dedicated to the armed forces of the American Empire…or are we still referring to this nation as a Republic?  Unfortunate, the business of government is so much the easier under the imperium.  In any event, I do not personally enjoy Memorial Day for I have not received any sort of recognition for my imprisonment and subsequent torture of the devious, and treacherous, Hun during the late unpleasantness in the Old World.  And I don’t care what these isolationist pantywaists say, selling sauerkraut during wartime is most assuredly a treasonous offense!  And I damn well know I have waited a week hence since the actual holiday!  If I can decipher Sextus’ heathen symbols below, I can very well navigate the Julian calendar!

Aries: (March 21-April 19)

Most people would view the last name, “Auschwitz” as a hindrance to a normal life.  But you’re not most people.

Taurus: (April. 20-May 20

Although catchy and melodic, your song, “Dirty Nazi Boy Fornicates a Goat,” fails to catch on with key demographics.

Gemini: (May 21-June 21)

The flaming mass of your car wrapped around a bridge impugnment will prove your bumper right: Shit does indeed Happen.

Cancer: (June 22-July 22)

The old axiom about bad corporate decisions leading to a massive crisis will come true at your company picnic in an incident involving an abnormally large fan and a tanker truck full of cow manure.

Leo: (July 23-Aug. 22)

The Internet is your playground.  Unfortunately for both present and future society, there are also children on that playground.

Virgo: (Aug. 23-Sept. 22)

Your long fight for the right of animals to carry firearms ends when Fido puts two in your back.

Libra: (Sept. 23-Oct. 23)

Put the trophy back.  It’s not yours.  And, no, you will never have the skill to take down that many elephants with a stapler.

Scorpio: (Oct. 24-Nov. 21)

You will ponder the major question of your time this week: Just where the hell is this “Iraq” place anyhow?

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

Your idea for doing the Electric Slide in a swimming pool will be fine.  It’s the car battery that will cause problems.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

Don’t answer that e-mail.  The monkeys turn out to be fully clothed.

Aquarius: (Jan. 20-Feb. 18)

You asked for it.  So don’t get angry when Jesus won’t get off your couch after a solid month of watching Golden Girls reruns.

Pisces: (Feb. 19-March 20)

Your life will have new meaning when, after a clerical error at the Department of Motor Vehicles, your license identifies you as Michael Lord of Beer.

Horoscopes: Commemorating Ann Boleyn

Editor’s Note:  Although my serving whelp Sextus no longer attends to my bed side and in fact betrayed me in a most uncouth fashion, the little gypsy penned a remarkable number of so-called “horoscopes” during the weeks he was in my service.  In order to achieve some recompense in the meantime before he is dully apprehended and has his ankles broken to prevent any more flights of fancy, I have chosen to publish these otherwise blasphemous and ungodly fortunes within the pages of the hallowed Onion newspaper, as I have been told the masses are intrigued by them.  All the better to distract the populace whilst I rob them blind in the night like a thief!  Perhaps I shouldn’t have wrote that down…no matter.  On with it!

This selection of horoscopes is dedicated to the memory of Ann Boleyn.  Not so much her own memory, but the just and noble beheading of that inconstant harlot.  If only gentlemen were permitted such remedies to marriages run afoul in the present day.  But, nay, allow the Susan B. Anthony’s of the world a faint leeway, and soon they are taking the legislature!  This is what happens when you allow women of displeasing physical shortcomings out of the basement washery to which they are properly suited.

Aries: (March 21-April 19)

In as much as it provides both security and salvation, the Collector’s Edition “Gimme the Tits” coffee mug sitting on your desk is your God.

Taurus: (April. 20-May 20

Except for a very small minority, people usually don’t purchase a dog for the reason you did.

Gemini: (May 21-June 21)

Through the actions of repressive municipal government, your dream of green stops signs for all dies in its infancy.

Cancer: (June 22-July 22)

After three dead and ten wounded, you begin to believe that the lions would be happier in their cages.

Leo: (July 23-Aug. 22)

Your belief that everyone loves a kitten will be tested when the stockbrokers take great exception to your placement of three hundred dying kittens in their boardroom.

Virgo: (Aug. 23-Sept. 22)

No matter how hard you focus your will, the pile of intoxicated prostitutes will not disappear from your living room.

Libra: (Sept. 23-Oct. 23)

Just remember to make it very clear to the Federal officers that it was the cat who told you to do it.

Scorpio: (Oct. 24-Nov. 21)

Stop trying to get the gorilla off your mailbox.  He’s not bothering anybody.

Sagittarius: (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

You will curse a God that seems to allow only the fattest, most malformed females to display their breasts for plastic trinkets.

Capricorn: (Dec. 22-Jan. 19)

Though you may continue to think you have revolutionized diarrhea treatments, your proposal has existed for years under the name “blumpkin.”

Aquarius: (Jan. 20-Feb. 18)

Despite your abrupt dismissal and modern loss of personal identity, in your heart you’ll always be Harvey the Drunken Machete Juggler.

Pisces: (Feb. 19-March 20)

Although your science has undoubtedly exceed your humanity, it won’t matter after your “revolutionary” cookies receive poor reviews and the team of Keebler elves make good on their vow to escape your workhouse.

Damnation to the Toy-Peddlers

-by T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus and Sight of Interest

As I have grown older and richer, collecting art works, awards, shrunken heads and building my Shangri-la type estate ever greater like Nero in his giddiest megalo-mania, I have begun to attract a fair share of middle class bourgeois types who are willing to fork over their hard-earned money to view my manse, gardens, baths, zoological park, and extensive dungeons.  I was at first very much against a bunch of photograph-happy pudgy families waddling through my prodigous peach orchards, dispersing them with my pack of rottweilers.  If only my loyal guard hound, Tiberius, were still of this terrestial spehre, we would have harvested a few brutalized corpses along with the peaches come this autumn.  However, I staid my hand against these wide-eyed voyagers after I was informed of the gate receipts.  Yet again, I was all too willing to suffer public eye in the hunt for the almighty dollar.

In all honesty, I scarcely noticed a difference, as I rarely exit my bed-chamber and had the massive picture window in my room covered by exotic hanging plants, which led to chipmunks, though it was nothing that one of my guards couldn’t take care of with the katana I stole from the shogun of Tokyo in a massage parlor.  And as my hearing and eyesight have gone the way of the Bull Moose Party, I barely notice when my diaper is being changed, much less a gaggle of visored tourists scuttling about the grounds of my heritage.  Though I am occasionally heartened by the sight of an onlooker being killed by falling debris from aged flying buttresses as they marveled at my personal chapel dedicated to St. Antonius Agrappa Zweibel, the first and only saint of my particular brand of Protestantism.  This blessed man once saved the bank of Zurich from fire by chanting the gospels for 86 straight hours, preserving the Zweibel fortune encased within.  Indeed, that was the only thing he rescued, as the tellers had long since perished in the blaze; but I digress.

I will relate to you, readers, what I do dislike about my showcase.  I first noticed it as I observed the dopy entrants cough up their greenbacks at the gate, aided by my interstellar telescope to extend my vision past the usual three-quarters of an inch.  Infecting the entrance were minorities of all coloration and kind hawking in the aghast faces of my admirers a diverse array of trinkets, mementos, alimentations and outright piles of horse dung.

I immediately summoned my crack squad of Danubian horsemen and ordered them to trample this walking plague where it stood.  Standish made a vain attempt to plead for clemency on their behalf, as most were poor immigrants.  I would have slapped my man-servant if I could raise my arms with the necessary force or speed to affect a satisfactory blow.  What do I care that these feckless peddlers are penni-less migrants?  My ancestors arrived on this land four centuries ago with only their guns, harsh religion and diseases.  They chopped a home of the swamps building their houses out of wood, mud, blood, sweat, and the femurs of unfortunate Iroquois.  Engender gainful employment, you multi-colored sewer-urchins!  My limited mercy will not be spent on merchants who sell things of little value at outrageous cost before my very eyes.

As the horde of crap-vendors is lanced by crazed Slavs before a gaggle of horrified visitors, I am reassured that my own café that I have constructed on the former site of my great uncle’s shrine will remain the sole provider of snacking food and souvernirs.  What sort of industrialist billionaire would I be if it such an enterprise were not a monopoly?  A damned poor one, mark well.  So, come visit my ancestral plot, where the orchards bloom with the beauty of Venus and trespassers are publicly beaten with bamboo shoots in my Supreme Justice Square.  Welcome, one and all paying customers!

I WISH TO HAVE MY OWN PAPACY

-T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus and Neo-Pontif

I should confess a rather sordid admiration for a man whose promulgations are blindly followed by thousands upon thousands of sop-headed parishioners even though his messages usually take the form of verbose and vague ramblings of an unearthly tender and written in a dead language.  I refer to, of course, the bishop of Rome.  I aspire to such penetration as his with my own editorials though I find myself hesitant at the prospect of imitating what is in essence a witch doctor with fancy garments.  My ancestors would be shitting hateful pennies of dismay if they knew of my praise for the throne of Catholicism.  My own cousin, Ernst Drehkül Zweibel, thrice tried to eliminate a Pope, once by booby-trapping the tabernacle with a rabid spider monkey.  It killed three cardinals, a deacon, and a papal pet hamster before being chopped in half by a Swiss guardsman,.  Needless to say, I am not exactly conforming to my family’s predispositions concerning the Vatican, as my insatiable lust for a voluptuous reading public overtakes the more Zweibelian angels of my nature.

Yet my options to attain the seat of holy rite are rather limited as one can no longer simply purchase a church office as in more brutish times.  I understand there is quite a bit of lucubration involved in acquiring the position as well as religious politicking.  Though I know quite well how to manipulate the college of cardinals, there is the constant burden of being a head of state, performing ritual after ritual, excommunicating single mothers, and I have it on good authority that the archbishops are nothing but a pack of two-faced backstabbers.  That and I have never been much one for wearing hats.

Then the notion struck me, like a vaporous bolt from the thunderheads of Zeus himself, an unmitigated boling in my kidneys!  Stones the size of eight balls rambling through my urinary tract!  Yet during this unfortunate passing of the calcified deposits, the idea of my own church reared its bounteous glory.  Not the bridesmaid of the Lord so much as the hierarchy whose decrees are heeded with nay a qualm.  Though it would mean turning my back on the family Puritanism, it was a small price to pay for expanded circulation.

I sprung to arms, giving orders thusly: Beavers, my accountant, shall prepare the necessary tax-exemption documents, a welcome side-benefice; Feebles, my gardner, shall arrange my manse in accordance with Christian iconology, with crosses abound and the Purple Whippor-will of Righteousness, the symbol of my church, burned into my hallowed grotto; Standish, my man-servant, shall act as deacon, meaning he will continue powdering my rump with talc after defecation as well as burning some incense now and again; John L. Lewis, union president, shall henceforth be labeled the anti-Christ.  Beyond this basic hierarchy, I import only these five commandments to my adherents:

To read the Onion newspaper daily at the nearest street-corner and in a loud accusatory tone of voice.

Attend no less than one service weekly; “service” being the continuous chant of my name until loss of consciousness.

Ascetic lifestyle in which all money is horded rapaciously and spent neither on worthy nor unworthy causes.

Visceral, undying hatred for all things Scottish.

That, on the day of my passing, all shall tear their vestments from their breasts and run naked through the Senate Chamber for forty days and forty nights.

I should suppose that these tenants of faith are not so harsh that even the most indolent among you could submit to them.  And you Catholics might as well convert immediately as your pope is due to render his soul at a nigh hour.  I can outlive any wizened Polack without a hint a sweat upon my brow.  Don’t fight it!  I am in league with the Almighty now.  Viva il Zweibel!

Who do These Federalis Think They Are?

- T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus and War Bond Holder

I have been a citizen of this great nation for 136 years, longer than any goddamn Montanan, and I have humbled myself countless times to accommodate the spendthrift practices of our government offices.  I acquiesced to the income taxation, knowing full well that I could ply the legal leverage necessary to avoid rendering a cent.  Then cometh the second Roosevelt, that red-marrowed Bolshevik, with this Social Security.  Why should I part with funds wrought from ink and bloody editor’s sweat just to insure that Grandma Poopendeck has something to sustain her after she blew her horde buying glutaneous stock on margin?  What did she ever contribute to my well-being—excepting, by course, the time she broke an axel on my carriage when she tried to slow my progression and sell me some overripe pears.

And now some overweight, glorified boy scout comes up to my door throwing subpoenas at me like they are rock candy.  Apparently, trading stocks under the auspices of privileged information is now a crime, along with, I assume, purchases of bread and breathing.  And that is sarcasm,I don’t want to see an interdicition on wheat products any time soon.

Why do you people not harass the bootlegging wops or those shiftless negroes?  At least the plunder of the Puritan contributes some benefit upon the social mass.  I do not pretend to symbolize the opinion of the whole populace, as those dullards are not worthy  of my ruminations, but the vast majority of my friends and colleagues loathe the haughty despotism of the Federal jackboots.

Hold fast, I need to amend my previous assertions: I have no true boon companions in the Aristotelian sense, for I sent Alf Landen home to Jesus some years ago when he wouldn’t extend his informal loan to my Ladies’ Home Trinket Trust.  So, I suppose that I am in truth only pronouncing on my own behalf.  But you will fucking listen!

Damn it to New Jersey, I’m hemmorhagging currency out of my anus.  What in heavens’ name persuaded me to cram reserve notes into my fundament?  Was I trying to prove a point, ipso est, I have slightly less money than God?  Standish, prevent me from performing that aberration on myself again.  I’m not concerned if I physically threatened you with a blunderbuss, you are to arrest me because I command it to be so.

I would have thought this president would have supported the uninhibited operation of an aristocracy but there seems to be a little too much politician, or Texan, in the mind set of that doddering simpleton.  I suppose I could just bribe all th government agents as I did during the gentleman’s campaign.  However, although I value having a puppet running the government, I do not enjoy having my hand up his ass all the time.

Are my diatribes against the government’s tyranny brewing rebellion yet?  Fiddle-sticks.  I suppose my words fall on ears deafened from my past ringing rants on this or that.  Still, I cannot coerce change by myself, that would make me some type of lone looney and we already have enough Eugene Debs in the world.  So in lieu of that:

Terror!  Oppression!  Rise up against your federal overlords!  They have intentions of raping your cattle and repossessing your potato-based alcohol.  Forbid them from doing so by launching a preemptive attack!  Proceed to your nearest armory and equipe yourselves.  Firebrands…firebrands and Sprinfield rifles for every hand!  And just ignore the frail old man packing the legislature full of half-wits and sycophants.  Do not trouble yourselves with such petty matters.  Enjoy your power, because God knows neither the Federals nor you will wrest it from me for very long!

I Am Being Forced to Pen Haiku!

- by T. Herman Zweibel, Publisher Emeritus and Sensé

In my voyage upon this terrestial sphere, I have seen the depths of perversity: long-haired savages devouring white men whilst they still breath, bestiality houses in the horrific districts of the ill-named Virgin Islands, maimed soldiers in hospitals along the Marne, death, disease, sexual aberration, genocide, public dismemberment, pogroms, and the British House of Commons.  All these putrid events pale in regard to my current predicament.

Fly me from this hell

Nurse froths like fat Cerberus

Her blubber drowns me

Gentle readers, I am being forced into authoring oriental limericks.  Because of some sort of wellness program my caretakers conjured up after my theomania caused me to execute one of my bakers for breathing in my direction, I am beaten like a fieldhand into performing various arts and crafts tasks.  And what manner of labor?  That of the Asian persuasion.

I, in darkest hell,

Smile at pills for sweet release

Take them all, Zweibel.

God, reading it is similar to waxing your tongue with cow flop.  I should urinate into the oil well and write with that; this is a waste of quality ink!  And yet, besides the perverted poetic form, I have been instructed to create paper sculptures of waterfowl.  I bemoaned that my fingers had not the required dexterity for such a task for more than two score years.  But my attendants gave no heed to my pleas.  I believe there is a sort of Caucasian-Indosino-Dirty Jap cohesion of the sexual nature between my man-servant and nurse taking place in my once puritan domain.  Even the laborer’s strife is paradise compared to this infraction of inalienable human dignity.

Searching under the sheets

Must find Derringer pistol

Nip overlords will pay.

And now I have a deceased slab of poultry before me with instructions to cook something called Kung Pao Chicken.  Oh, cruel taskmasters, I have not prepared a meal since my victory dinner after I shot an elephant of the Serenghetti and made its tusks into a commode.  This is the worst odor I hath smelt since I found the corpse of Clarence Darrow in my bureau.  I will not handle those spices!  It is un-Christian!

My nostrils fill up

My stomach churns like butter

Dink must fry instead.

Well, I can guarantee you all that this Greater Zweibel Co-Prosperity Sphere shall not stand.  There will be no more cultural integration for this New Englander.  Of course, leave it to my sons to disdain my traditional purity by dining in Greek bistros, marryng pigmented harlots, actually paying my border-jumping gardner, and, bless me Christ, voting for Democrats.  But what can an aging plutocrat do to stem the rising tides of normative heresy that washes over such precious customs?

O my stupid sons

Your lowly races cannot

Save you from my guns.

So, the lesson to be digested here is that in these times of discontent, rely not on the promise of an open, harmonious utopian fantasy land, but the security of a system safe in aristocratic hierarchy.  I’m not against freedom for all but I am contrary to some lethargic tarbaby whoring it out like it was their own mother.  Your tears for a lesser man will not put cornmeal on your plates or a limited edition Bentley in your carriage house.  We all have the patriotic duty to support the administration, however stubbornly fundamentalist it may seem, in its fight to protect us from an alien foe, whether they may be a scimitar-waving Arab, grass-clipping spic, gold-sucking Jew, indolent Negro, or, as in my case, a durthering, oval-eyed human ocean liner.  This is a time for Americans, our lawns we leave to the wetbacks with their popery and flour-laden sandwich wraps.