My man-servant Standish informed me that this upcoming Yule-tide will be the final one of the years that begin with 19. This fact got me to thinking and, although I certainly would hate to impose on any-one, it would sure be nice if I could receive the gift of a nice, new woolen shawl for Christ-mas.
I do have a shawl right now, but it is old and worn, and it has grown rather, shall I say, wretched. I will not go into gory detail, but suffice it to say, it bears at least three successive layers of congealed sputum and leprous skin flakes.
I have saved the guess-work for any potential gift-giver by picking out the shawl I would like. The F.J. Abernathy Dry-Goods Catalogue has a very nice chartreuse-colored one with a pretty diamond-knit design and fringe border for $1.20. It is featured on page 211 of the catalogue, among other shawl models of varying price. If I got one of those instead, that would be fine, too.
This is not the type of present I would pitch into a closet and never lay eyes on again, like those hundreds of mechanical nightingales, jewel-encrusted sceptres and chests of doubloons I’ve received for count-less Christ-mases past. It is true, the old adage which says that the finer things in life are invariably the simplest. Yet no-one ever thinks to give me a shawl, not even my near-destitute servants, who often spend as much as half their yearly wages to purchase for me some gaudy bauble that, more often than not, goes into the refuse heap.
A new shawl would be quite a boon for me. I think I would wear it in bed mostly, about my shoulders, and secure it at my bosom with a safety-pin. I could also wear it when Standish wheels me about the mansion in my wheel-chair. Or when Nurse Pin-head spoons me my gruel every evening. Or when I look out the window of my bed-chamber for hours on end.
Should I receive a shawl this Christ-mas, I promise I will write the benefactor a very cordial letter of thanks and well-wishes. Said benefactor will also be invited to my estate for a festive Christ-mas dinner. Standish will let you in through the back-door, and you will eat your meal in the servants’ dining-room. Stew will be served.
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.
