As my more astute readers will no doubt recall, about three weeks back, I was mysteriously transformed into a gigantic cock-roach. Though the change has been decidedly odd and shows no sign of reverting any-time soon, I must confess that I am having the time of my life. I can now eat all the foods that age and infirmity once denied me: binding-glue, horse-dung, toe-nail parings, silver-fish–everything! I can carry myself about my enormous mansion, though I cannot seem to keep from disappearing under furniture whenever the lights are suddenly switched on. I can even climb to the ceiling and suspend myself for a time. (It is quite luxurious to sway in the air-currents and doze off!) I leave a much smaller slime trail than I did as an aged gentle-man, and if my looks are not much improved, I gather that my odor most certainly is.
I remember my vizier once saying that perhaps we are men dreaming that we are butter-flies, or butter-flies dreaming that we are men. At the time, I thought his remark was some-thing straight out of a navel-gazing school-girl’s composition-tablet, but now I’m glad I kept the wise old fool on the pay-roll. If this is indeed a dream, I hope I never awake from it!
However, one draw-back is that I have experienced increased difficulty in making myself under-stood. Yesterday, my solicitor Beavers entered my bed-chamber unsummoned, a presumptuous act for which I once would have had him flayed three times about the court-yard. But in my new and energized state, I was most delighted to see him.
“Beavers!” I exclaimed, eager to apply my new cock-roach vigor to the business of the news-paper, a purpose for which I knew it was uniquely suited. “Summon the press-men! For I have an inspiration concerning the use of certain animal-based dyes and inks which I believe would suit The Onion’s needs, as well as being quite tooth-some!”
To my astonishment, Beavers did not respond with the veneer of civility that usually masks his repugnance. Instead, he took one look at me standing side-ways upon the oil portrait of the Kaiser (the cool of the canvas soothes my carapace), vomited up a pot-roast, and fled. The insolence! Back to the weekly temperance meetings with him!
As I write this, I hear Beavers instructing the stable-boy to maneuver a large, stickum-floored box in front of the door to my bed-chamber. I have no idea what it might be, but its adhesives smell at once delicious and dangerous, and Beavers’ pot-roast is already half-gone. I wonder if the stickum tastes as good as the glue in the encyclopaedia bindings…
T. Herman Zweibel, the great grandson of Onion founder Friedrich Siegfried Zweibel, was born in 1868, became editor of The Onion at age 20, and persisted in various editorial posts until his launching into space in 2001. Zweibel’s name became synonymous with American business success in the 20th century. Many consider him the “Father Of American Journalism,” also the title of his well-known 1943 biography, written by Norman Rombauer.
