Well, week two of being an enormous cock-roach, and I must admit that it’s not so bad. If this sentiment sounds curious to you, bear in mind that prior to this metamorphosis, I was a 132-year-old human being who was constantly bed-ridden. My mobility has greatly improved, and I can skitter about quite ably from room to room on my six hairy legs. I have a commanding set of mandibles, and my shell is of an attractive mahogany hue. It’s not glamorous, but I must say that if I had to metamorphose into an insect, I could have done far worse, such as a meal-worm or one of those creepy luna moths. Ewww! My exoskeleton crawls just to think of it!
Also, it’s not as if there were a dainty lady around here who would scream and faint dead away at my shocking condition. The only woman is Nurse Pin-head, and she’s about as squeamish as a pillar of flint. When she saw me scaling the wall of my study, she merely shrugged and walked away. It took Doc McGillicuddy a few minutes to notice what had happened to me during my weekly check-up.
Responding to my queries about my condition (I can still talk despite my commanding set of mandibles), Doc McGillicuddy produced a small pamphlet. It was a narrative about a Jewish sales-man from Prague who experienced a similar physical transformation. Curious, I bade Nurse Pin-head to read it to me. At first, I found the description of the petit-bourgeois preoccupations of Mr. Samsa and his family rather twee, discursive, and far too conversational for a medical-tract. And I kept wishing that the author would get to the part about the cure. Then Nurse Pin-head read aloud the char-woman’s discovery.
“Holy shit!” I shrieked. “You’re going to kill me!” My antennae quivered uncontrollably, and I shot under-neath the sofa in my study as fast as my legs could carry me. I didn’t care if it was socially unacceptable to turn into a giant bug; no-one was going to hurl apples at me! In spite of my servants’ entreaties, I refused to emerge. “If there’s no cure for my condition, so be it!” I cried! “Just call me Blattella germanica from now on. And while you’re at it, bring me a plate of rotten meat!”
I don’t want any-one feeling sorry for me. Come to think of it, no-one felt sorry for me when I was an infirm old man, so the hell with you all! I still spend most of my time under-neath the sofa, but for the last couple nights I’ve been going down to the kitchen and lingering around the sink-pipes. I like the dampness, away from the char-woman.
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.
