Ever since my treacherous ro-bot nurse Mr. Tin fled the estate for parts unknown, my bed-chamber has borne witness to a series of incompetents and charlatans, each a disgrace to the nursing profession. One actually tried to suckle me, as though I were a babe-in-arms, and another would scream in horror after laying eyes upon me and race from the room. Yet another, worst of all, thought the all-purpose cure for my ailments was to immerse me in a tank filled with rubbing alcohol. This only agitated my chronic hemorrhoid condition to the point where my rectum felt like a blast furnace. The nurse was promptly dismissed.
I told my physician, Doc McGillicuddy, of my woes finding a new nurse. Doc replied that I was going through the improper channels. “A man of your highly advanced age and delicate health requires a learned specialist to look after him, not a mere nurse-maid with minimal training,” he said. Doc added that he would make it his personal responsibility to find me a proper care-taker.
A few days later, Standish entered my bed-chamber and announced that Doc was here with a suitable find for me. In walked Doc with an eight-foot-tall tattooed pin-head dressed in a nurse’s uniform. My sphincter gave away. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” I screamed. “McGillicuddy, have you taken leave of your senses?”
Doc responded that this leviathan was the type of specialist he had in mind. She was from one of the Balkan provinces and had years of experience as a care-taker of circus freaks and assorted medical oddities. “She may do if I were Lobster-Boy,” I barked, “but I am an elderly, incontinent billionaire!”
My protests came to naught. McGillicuddy left me at the mercy of this hideous creature. Having been in her care for several weeks now, however, I must admit that her skills as a nurse are no worse than Mr. Tin’s: She wipes front to back, scrupulously boils the rectal thermometer, and never forgets to remove the tongue depressor from my mouth. I suppose things could be worse, but I despair I will never find my ideal nurse—a woman with enormous mammaries and designs on my fortune.
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.
