Large Balls Crashing Through Windows Are Quite Unexpected

Pictured: Harswil Manchester III, Esquire

Greetings, young people, once more. I have been petitioned by the editors of this fine "internet" publication to once more write an article chronicling my daily life, and, after consulting Jibsley, agreed, on the basis that it might inform people of the plights of the extraordinarily rich. But since it is our third time together, I thought I might pour a bit of Millton Vineyards Opou Chardonnay and take a little time to tell you some more personal details about myself.

You see, I come from a long line of exceptionally rich persons, and I live in an estate that was built by the own hands of the servants of my father's father's father. Ah, but who wants to hear history when I could be relaying a small jape to you, one I created my own self on this very morning while having my skin softened and moisturized in a most ingenious compound derived from the fetal material of the white whale.

Now: what happened to the proletariat who tried to acheve social equality?

He died of malnutrition!

After the reader has paused for a reviving laugh, I will continue with a harrowing anecdote or two!

The events I will share with you occurred on this very morning. I was awakened, as usual, by the soft touch of a warm cloth on my forehead and the soothing music of an orchestra in my employ. Upon my removal from the blissful arms of solemnence, I was served breakfast, with one notable alarming exception. The oysters which I eat with ev'ry morning repast were absent! I cannot acheive true awkening without them, so naturally I was perturbed, and called for Jibsley at once.

"Zounds, Jibsley!" I shouted, coming very near to popping a particular vocal cord of mine, and one that I am certain that I use often! "Where the devil are my oysters?"

He replied that the small island nation from which they are imported daily to my estate was undergoing civil unrest, and the divers who normally would retreive for me my meal were instead engaged in arm'd combat with the divers from the other end of the island!

Needless to say, I was most displeased, and ordered that the nation be brought to enforced peace immediately, so that I may have my morning oysters. I have yet to receive a return communique from them, which distresses me, but I had no time to dwell on that, for something even more startling occurred just moments later!

You see, after a refreshing bath in water warmed from the most southerly of glaciers, as I was being toweled off by my nubile bathservants, a white, leather-bound ball crashed through my stained-glass windows and landed on my lap!

I immediately fell to the floor in a protective fetal position as I croaked in agony. Around me, the scantily-clad young women who bathe me fluttered about uselessly, screaming at a most uncomfortable volume. Apparently, some young ruffians were playing some sort of primitive game outside my doors with a ball and a wooden object.

"Jibsley," I croaked. "Call the exterminator!"

But imagine my surprise when he told me that the one we had in our employ had been put out of business due to legal reasons!

I could, of course, have him reinstated, but not in enough time to solve the problem immediately at hand. I would have to rectify it myself! I asked my servants to fetch me my elephant-gun, which my father presented to me on my 17th birthday, after slaying a terrifying beast in the serengeti.

I crept outside in my best hunting outfit and spied the boys cavorting alongside the road with the strange device I had mentioned earlier. I made my way to the large mailbox in the front of my estate, behind which I took cover as I found the boys in my sights. The gun spewed forth noise and violence, and I managed to hit two in quick succession, though the third boy I winged. I ran after him as he stumbled away, but was unable to catch him. I was loathe to leave my property, in case I would catch a disease from one of the poor people in my county, most of which are constantly fornicating and spreading diseases.

So, I regretably retired home, to drink a glass of Millton Vineyards Opou Chardonnay and get the 68-90 hours of rest I generally require after performing strenuous physical activity on my own accord. But here, in this very Internetted column, I issue my warning to that rapscallion, should I see him darken the gates of my estate again: stay away from my estate, you vagabound!

Harswil Manchester III is the oldest man on the planet, and is wealthier than everyone who ever lived combined and doubled. He was never young.

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