In Which I Petition The Government For Bailout Money To Finance My Moon Home

Pictured: Harswil Manchester III, Esquire

Dearest readers of my column on this system of copper and magick piping, I feel as though it has been ages since last we met, though perhaps I am just aging faster than I rightly should be, which is certainly possible with the way things are headed these days! (Also, my faithful servant and occasional transportation vehicle Jibsley has taken to whitening his teeth with some confounded Paste, producing a smile so bright that I am certain it is giving me radiation poisoning when directed at my skin!)

For once, however, my main concern is not the forces of treachery -- such as the strange Voo-Doo head scarf that my cook has taken to wearing that is incubating lice and chiggers as we speak -- that will be the death of me someday soon. Instead, I intend to use this space to petition our fine government -- perhaps one of the Founding Fathers, if He is still alive to hear me -- for an infusion of "bailout" capital, in order to complete work on my summer home on the surface of the moon.

Sirs, hear my proposal, if you are not deafened by my wanton usage of an exclamation point, assuming a servant or smart canine is dictating my column to you! Staying on Earth during the rigors of the summer months is a young man's game, and I am anything but (at this point, Jibsley is doing some sort of jig intended to disagree with me, but I have spied him looking with interest at the various dried fruits and meats that have collected in my skin folds over the years -- undoubtedly, he is aware of my ageitude). More importantly, if I am suffering discomfort during the summer (i.e., a Bead of Sweatness forming on my own body), I will not be likely to help the economy forward with an occasional purchase of a shelled nut, or a pregnancy test (I have become convinced that one of my servants intends to impregnate me in order to gain access to my vast wealth by way of progeny!).

Here is what I expect to happen once I complete my lunar home: I shall enlist the aid of the friendly Mole People to give me the grand tour of our fine satellite. But once I am in their den, I will suddenly spring into action, by which I mean I will don a pointy hat, and have Jibsley throw me at the ringleader, as he would a fine spear! With the King Mole fallen, the other Moles will defer to my leadership, and I will commission them to bring me fine moon wine, of which I'm certain there are many varieties! This wine will establish me -- and by extension, our fine country -- as a leader of lunar spirits for all the world to see.

By now, you must grasp the severity of...

...oh, the shame! Oh, my bile in my windpipe! Jibsley has just shown me a note (since his hands and toes are already occupied with typing my dictations as fast as 20 digits allow, he must have written the note in his spare time with his eyelashes) in which he cautions that by requesting this money, I have descended into the company of the syphilis-ridden poor!

Could this be possible? I am beginning to suck in large quantities of air to gain my breath, but I fear there were unusually large loose skin flakes in the air, which have now sliced open my gums and tongue!

Jibsley, don't stop getting this down, no matter how my blood may be blinding your eyes! But by the salt in the Lunar Ocean, it's the servant who wants to implant her child within my loins! She has just entered the room with towels and a bucket ...Jibsley, her plasma must be in there! Do not let her douse me with her genes...try typing the following to ward her off: "You shall never attain any respectable class in society, you shrew; and your plasma be damned!"

Hrrrnnngghhhh. All matters of my humors are now spewing violently from my mouth. Jibsley is attempting to deflect them back into my windpipe with his radiation teeth, while keeping up my column with the typewriter betwixt his thighs, but I cannot tell if it's working or not. Jibsley! Stop showing your teeth so prominently -- the radiation is boiling my brains inside my skull!

Harswil Manchester III is the oldest man on the planet, and is wealthier than everyone who ever lived combined and doubled. He lost consciousness shortly after completing this column; when he awoke a few days later, he was informed that the Treasury Secretary had awarded him $300 billion for his lunar home.

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