I am sorry to say that Standish and I are no longer under the protection of the Burger-King. At the end of the first day of asylum, the diplomat known as “Dale—Crew Manager” informed us that we had been mistaken for two other “senior-citizens” who apparently also sought refuge with the fabled monarch of meat.
“They missed their shuttle-bus, but they’ll be coming to work tomorrow,” Dale said. “You’ll both have to leave.”
We did not leave empty-handed, how-ever. Dale gave each of us a twenty-dollar green-back and asked us not to report this incident to the state attorney general’s office, what-ever that was.
Forty whole dollars! It was more money than Standish and I had seen in weeks! “Do you know what this means, Standish?” I exclaimed. “This is enough to purchase a small parcel of land!”
Indeed, I had noticed a great deal of arable land in the area surrounding the court of the Burger-King, and with spring fast approaching, I felt it would be a good thing to grease the plough-share and break the winter-hardened soil. After selecting a choice piece of earth, I sent Standish to the general-mercantilist to purchase some much-needed items such as a plough, a mule, farm implements, seeds and some food-staples. Then we could use the rest of the cash to buy the land from its owner.
Mean-while, I roamed the acreage in my electrically fired wheel-chair, mentally plotting out where the cotton and sorghum would go. Ah, the life of a gentle-man planter! It had been many years since I had worked the soil, but it was all quickly coming back to me.
Imagine my distress, then, when Standish came back with scarcely any of the items vital to running a farm! “The Stand ’N’ Buy had virtually none of the sundries you requested, sir,” Standish said. “It did, how-ever, purvey a sweetened bromide known as ’Yoo-Hoo,’ as well as ’Power-ball tickets,’ one of which I bought. It was explained to me that a select few of these tickets are worth significantly more than their face value.”
If it were possible to have had Standish horse-whipped right there on the spot, I would have elected to do so. How-ever, before I had the chance to say a word, a man emerged from the brush, brandishing a shot-gun. “I don’t take much of a shine to loiterers and trespassers,” he said. “Now git off my property, or swallow buck-shot! Go on, git!”
Standish and I had no choice but to flee. God-damn uppity farmers! Once you let them form organizations like the Grange, you’re asking for trouble.
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.
