72

Of course as you know I have achieved astounding feats in a variety of fields, from biology, to geography, to sport and of course my great advances in the carnal arts. Therefore it was with a measure of shame that I realized one day that there are some who could say they have surpassed Somerset in excellence in a certain field, the field of martyrdom.

Yes it's true I have always been fascinated with the martyr, his dedication, fanaticism, and the way he is revered. Should not such veneration be given to me as well? How to get the glory and esteem that comes with a successful act of martyrdom, without the pesky and unfortunate side effect of death?

Now make no mistake I had no intention in becoming one of those namby pamby submissive lay down and be eaten by a lion or burned at the stake kind of martyr. No I always felt a kindred link to the strap a bomb to your body and assassinate as many as possible kind of chap. After all, though they say the pen is mightier than the sword, does any ink dispenser compare to 500 pounds of TNT?

How I do chortle at the thought of fighting against some tyrant or oppressor through the use of the printing press. Courtrooms and pamphlets? Pshaw! Why whenever my tenants dared to air their grievances with me through form or subpoena I had the paper burned and their houses too. The pen is not mightier than fire either I have discovered.

Where was I? Oh yes, the efficacy of blowing thine enemies to tiny bits. Longing to exalt myself to the status of martyr extraordinaire, I began to look into the matter further, with the goal of going down in the annals as the greatest martyr of all time by St. Crispin's Day.

Fear not, there was never a question of my dying of course. Naturally I would have one of my lesser servants serve as the body of martyrdom by proxy, while I would serve as the spiritual martyr and attain the glory, while living when I could appreciate it mind you.

Still I was reluctant to allow my servant to enjoy the pleasures my martyrdom would earn in the afterlife, and so I instructed him to merely hold my place in paradise until I died of natural causes and would then take over.

Lastly I wished to clear up some questions I had about the exact nature of paradise, and so I took my zeppelin, Der Albatross, to Islamabad, where I hoped to consult with some experts on the subject, and pick their minds on just what I was entitled to in paradise.

My attorney Sniveswell accompanied me and we joined a mullah in some ghastly cafe where the waitresses were covered head to foot. Nothing to whet the old appetite!

"So then mullah! Were I,"...Sniveswell tapped my arm..."pardon me, or my proxy I should say, to commit to blowing himself and the infidel to bits for the greater glory of Allah, I understand that 72 virgins await my fevered loins in paradise. Is that correct?"

The mullah scratched his beard and nodded.

"I say, this is a bit of an aside, but you know you and the Orthodox Jew, although perhaps not the best of comrades, do have much in common you know."

His eyebrow raised a touch.

"You both seem rather fond of beards and averse to soap. Those scraggly things teem with vermin you know."

He reached for a knife but Sniveswell placated him with some well placed gold coins. I continued.

"Now then, a point or two if I may. These 72 virgins sound well and good, but I dare say I am entitled to specifics am I not? Do I have your personal guarantee that these are good looking virgins? A virgin is fine and dandy at first thought, but perhaps they are virgins for a reason! Do you have a gaggle of amputees awaiting me in paradise? Old spinster women? Fatty boombalatties by any chance?"

The mullah seemed to grimace. I was undaunted.

"A hard bargainer I see! Well I'll have you know I was weaned in the bazaars of Morocco! And just what are these virgins doing when not fucking martyrs? Do they sit around paradise knitting or cooking or something? They must be rather bored no? And I dare say why 72? Why not 10 or 114? It seems a capricious number do you not agree?"

His gaze was of steel.

"You are a tough negotiator my good man. The Belgian technique! Abject silence! Well I shall continue...were these virgins living girls, who died while still virgins, and are now held in virgin pens in paradise? Or are they ghosts of some sort?"

Sniveswell was writing many things down and I paused to look around for a waitress as my lime drink had grown warm. I spied a glimpse of her ankle and my privates stirred. "Ah yes, Sniveswell this is an important point so have that pen ready."

I turned to the mullah. "As you know from my obvious vigor I shall have no problem defiling 72 virgins, or 720 for that matter, assuming of course that no matter how I die my body will be reanimated intact in paradise...though that seems nonsensical...what age would I be reincarnated as anyhow?...I'm getting away from the central point aren't I!"

I chortled heartily and slapped the mullah's shoulder, delighted to have finally shared a light moment with him, though his expression remained grim and his lip actually began to bleed he was biting it so hard.

"In any event, I just hope Allah allows me to be wearing a linen suit, for I do look rather grand in them if I do say so. I'm sure he will, he seems a generous chap. As to the virgins...now there is the delicate matter of my, well I don't want there to be any confusion..."

Sniveswell nodded knowingly.

"After I go through these virgins, roger them I mean, or, I dare say I don't know the vernacular in these parts...copulate? Well after martyrdom I do plan on buggering these girls well and often is what I'm getting at!"

Sniveswell scribbled at a fast pace and the blood poured from the mullah's lips to his beard.

"It is just that, once I have made the rounds through these maidens, they will no longer be so virginal no? Are you to tell me that after a few weeks of unbridled debauchery in paradise with my, and I'm assuming this, young and nubile virgins, I'll be reduced to fornicating with women whose vagina become increasingly loose and sloppy?"

Sniveswell took a heavy pinch of snuff and the mullah squeezed his knife til his hands turned white.

"One more thing, these virgins aren't the emotional sort are they? Won't be much of a paradise if I have 72 clingy girls following me around all the time. I wish to defile them and relax with a minimum of chit chat you savvy?"

It was then that the mullah rose with a grunt and seemed to want to push his knife into my chest. I shot him of course, long ago having made a habit of bringing a pistol to every negotiation. The stench of his body did rather spoil my repast and I was left with questions unanswered as well. Does Islamabad ever satisfy?

As Sniveswell and I took flight in my zeppelin sometime later he wondered aloud, "I say, did that angry fellow even speak English?"

I threw some limes at children chasing us below. "Don't interrupt me Sniveswell."

Uncle Wiggly

Greetings all! I must say I do feel invigorated of late, what with it being at least a fortnight since I have been stabbed, shot, or contracted a venereal disease. When I feel so uplifted I long to take flight, literally, and so I hop aboard my zeppelin, Der Albatross, and sail through the skies destined for wherever wind and whimsy see fit to put me down! I dare say it is a most congenial mode of travelling, and I highly recommend it to all those wealthy enough to indulge.

Of course that rules out about 6 billion of my planet's fellow inhabitants, but of course I have never given those putrid masses much thought in any event, save for the young and nubile. I will admit however a smidgen of admiration for a pilot who lowered himself, figuratively and literally, to the level of the pauper, and deigned to give them sweets. He flew a plane during the Berlin Airlift, that massive undertaking that brought food and fuel to those German bastards trapped behind the mighty iron curtain of those communist rogues, the Soviets. When this fine fellow, who went by the name of Gail, which I dare say is a rather feminine name for a pilot, but I digress, saw the little German urchins barefoot, starving and wearing only tattered rags, he was moved to give them gum and chocolate.

Soon people the world over were willing to overlook his flagrant disregard for their dental health, and applauded his humanity, and the cuteness of the little parachutes he fashioned, which he would throw out of his plane, and the children would jump about and watch the candy laden chutes fall to the bombed out earth. What a jolly good show!

Did you know those little German imps dubbed him the Schokoladen Flieger, (chocolate flyer), or Onkel Wackelflugel, (Uncle Wiggly Wings)? They did! What? Do you think I would lie to you dear reader? Do you think I would concoct falsehoods? You should be ashamed to even entertain such nefarious thoughts!

In fact, I was so inspired by his generous works, that I decided to undertake a similar...undertaking, for lack of a better word, through the use of my zeppelin. Of course, as a Somerset is never unoriginal, I couldn't sail my blimp over impoverished or war torn lands and toss candy, and so I needed to conjure up some other way in which to deliver joy and happiness to the downtrodden and hopeless.

Inspiration was not far, for I recalled that I had named my zeppelin after the albatross, a bird which can fly and glide thousands of miles across the globe without landing! Sometimes, after spanning oceans and continents it will only touch ground in order to copulate. I was thus doubly inspired. Could I bring joy to the world with my zeppelin and the example of the albatross?

Indonesia would find out! As I brought my vessel low over the jungles the natives jumped and danced about, just as those German brats undoubtedly did when they got a whiff of chocolate and other sweets. Could these natives girls smell the Somerset musk coming at them from the heavens?

Many fled into the trees, no doubt frightened witless by this strange floating monstrosity, but the curious stayed, or at least the one young lady who was tied to a post in the center of the village apparently as some sort of sacrifice to the floating god descending from the sky.

Thankfully these unwashed heathen had left a rather tasty young morsel for me, and had I spoken their language I would have thanked them profusely. Here I thought I would be the one dispensing the treat of my manhood, and these kindly savages were returning my kindness with...zounds! I have scalded myself with my tea! I shall relay the rest of my tale at another time. Know now that Priva was only too happy to learn that I did not land to murder and devour her, but merely to copulate and whisk her aboard my zeppelin, where I must admit she became a most energetic first mate.

Where have all the assassins gone?

These are mad times, when heroic leaders like George Bush are forced to forgo golf as a sop to the masses who don't appreciate being given the opportunity to send their sons and daughters off to far flung lands in order to be blown to bits for the greater glory of the empire. Why, do you think my Queenie Poo, Victoria, would ever deign to give up her afternoon tea, or her morning tea, or any of her hourly respites and leisure beverages out of solidarity with some wench from Wentworth whose child had the honor of getting speared to death for the good of England? Of course not.

To think that George gave up golf because he didn't want mothers who had lost sons in Iraq to see him, the Commander-in-Chief, playing a game, while the country was at war. Is that not what commander's do? Why, when I led my regiment of fusiliers against the backward tribesmen of Burma, I made sure to set a shining example of leadership by commanding them from hundreds of miles away, engaging my favorite Calcutta prostitute in a private game of cricket, while they sallied forth into the jungle to face their frenzied foe. That is supreme leadership mind you! What a display of confidence! One can only imagine the fright running through the little heads of the enemy as they pondered the forces coming at them. Surely the British must be mighty, for if, on the morning of battle, their commander can comfortably idle away the hours as the fight rages, gently paddling the brown bottom of his favorite Indian harlot with a cricket bat, what hope could we have?

Of course my fusiliers soundly routed the Burmese brigands, with casualties of only 90%, and victory was achieved. Sadly today it appears as if my wonderful precedent goes ignored! George should be leading the men he sent to war with a 3 wood in hand, patrolling the greens with stern gaze and wielding his putter like a strong sword. Would that not send shudders through the bones of the Mohammedan? I am quite certain that when the ignorant masses who make up the bulk of the dispensable armed forces drive through the streets of Baghdad hoping not to get blown apart, maimed and killed, they think of their fearless leader scooting around the manicured greens of the golf course, and it comforts them. And when an infidel bomb crashes through their Humvee and sends them flying to their deaths, no doubt they spend their last moments with breath smiling in the knowledge that their commander is safe, and himself blasting his ball out of the rough, sending it flying skyward on his way to a birdie!

Ho ho! It is no wonder the American armed forces are so adept at conquest. My only fear is that the leadership of this great land one day succumbs to the unwashed wishes of the idiot populace and makes further sacrifices. I dare say I have even heard rumblings that the President should not have time for golf at all, or hunting, or fishing, or clearing brush from his ranch, or attending parties, and so on, ...their list of complaints is truly endless and goes on for an interminable length. In short these fools think Mr Bush should be working! Imagine! What a crock of poppycock! One does not become Commander-in-Chief in order to sully his delicate hands with labor. Let some drone figure out a way to provide the troops with armor, the great leaders must set an example of leisure for the world to admire and aspire to. I say let George golf, and when a trooper has the glory of having his body torn apart by shrapnel, let his mother find consolation in seeing the intact torso of the tanned and rested leader, unaffected by the turmoil in that far away place, putting his stamp on history with his putter.

Where the devil are you going?

What with these modern times being so chock full of stupidity, I thought it wise to venture back into the ancient world to see if I could glean a measure of cleverness or two, and what better man to ask then Moses, the old Jew. As you have undoubtedly surmised already, he was not at all shocked at the sight of my time machine landing at his weary feet, what with him being used to Jehovah himself delivering tablets and bushes afire at all hours of the day.

"What say you Moses!" I bellowed as I slapped him on his back in the spirit of good fellowship. "I see I have found you in the midst of leading your "chosen" people out of Egypt and to the "Promised Land"!"

He stared at me in silence and munched on a date. No doubt his harrowing journey had left him famished, and so I pardoned his rudeness.

"Tell me Moses", I drew him close with a wink and whispered, "taking the scenic route are we?" I punched his elbow. "I have an atlas in my coat, and I think we both know it doesn't take one 40 years to go from Egypt to Israel. Why there is not much to see along the way in any event!"

He did not return my laugh but merely stroked his beard, which I am sad to say seemed to be teeming with lice or other such vermin.

"What's your angle old boy? This meandering journey of yours has had me flummoxed for centuries...and I dare say I don't know why you've settled on Israel. Rather horrid place don't you think? Full of sand and other nastiness. Are you not aware of Tahiti?"

Moses tried to push past me, but I have a stout bearing, as you are undoubtedly aware from reading of my travels past.

"How dare you! There shall be no shoving of Somerset, friend of Yahweh or not! Now be polite and answer me. I'm merely trying to deduce why the great Jehovah, your champion, the man who loves you and what not, would give you Israel as a chosen land, and leave a veritable paradise like Hawaii up for grabs?"

He nudged me with his staff.

"You're a bold one Moses! But you will find I am not so easy to part as that Red Sea! Are you not man enough to answer a query or two? It simply does not seem sensible that God, when dispensing land to his chosen people, would give them a tiny strip of dirt in the middle of a war torn section of sand, when there exists isles abundant with verdure and brown girls who love to lay with men and feed them coconuts and other such sweetness."

He stared into my eyes with a look of profound fatigue. I glanced to his right..."I say Mo, is that a golden calf?"

His head whirled round and I guffawed. "Ho ho! Just a jest my good fellow. But do tell me, why would Jehovah have a chosen people at all? I'm not one to question the divine and infallible creator, but the idea of manufacturing a chosen people, and then creating millions more, lesser, not so loved people, seems positively daft. It is like going to the brothel, where your favorite whore awaits, but choosing instead to spend time with some lesser strumpet. Why not lay content with your one true harlot? Would you not agree?"

The venerable leader of the Hebrew sighed mightily, and it then dawned on me that there were no facilities nearby.

"I say! I completely understand your exasperation. It must be difficult to tend to your delicate business under these conditions."

He muttered something in Hebrew, and it was then I remembered that he spoke no English, and probably mistook me for an angel speaking some heavenly tongue, or some pagan god.

I rested my hand on his shoulder as if I sympathized with his plight. "I shall delay you no more old man. Continue on your way, I have no doubts all will turn out well with your people in their new home."

Of course I bit my lip when I said the last, and it took all of my will to stifle the chortle that emanated from deep within me, and longed to expel itself in his wizened face.

The sun was hot and I was weary of debating with such an obstinate fellow. I looked about me, holding my breath so as to avoid Moses' stench, and there, beneath the shade of a small cluster of trees, was a smoldering young Jewess, bathing herself in an oasis. I pushed past the old man and headed towards her, and by the golden glint in her eye I could tell that she was rather enchanted with my linen suit.

After some trivial exchange of pleasantries she soon lead me to her tent, and I assure you I wasted no time in reaching her promised land! Ho ho!

L'etat c'est stupide

Greetings all. The Congo was most exciting, but I must say I am glad to be back in a civilized country, where penises are safe and the shop shelves are stocked with a least 3 varieties of cashews, a true mark of advancement. If only those superstitious Congolese would embrace the realism and practicality of you Americans! Too imbued with the hocus pocus are they, and not clear eyed enough to look past the fanciful, and embrace the hard measures their country needs.

Why I dare say I am astonishingly pleased to see the way in which the oft derided average American can still support his leader, even after the country is grievously attacked on his watch, and his response is to sit idly before a room full of children with a look of stunned fear. Some romantics long for an Alexander, or a George Washington, but those reckless leaders of men have the annoying habit of charging into battles themselves, exposing their bodies and souls for the good of their countrymen, and risking death in the process.

And how did Alexander fare? Buggered and poisoned. And of that impetuous and rabble rousing Washington? He had wooden teeth and a penchant for chopping down delightful cherry trees. Is that what you want from a president?

How pleasant to see that in a nation of 300 million one man was chosen to lead, a man with the moral courage and foresight to continue his strenuous regimen of relaxation and golf, even while failing to capture the man responsible for the single greatest attack his country has ever suffered. Did he quaver and give in to pressure to work? Heavens no, why I dare say he did not alter his routine one bit! And that is the hallmark of a true gentleman of leisure. No matter what calamity life might throw your way, tea remains at 4, always find time for your favorite whore, and may your golf clubs remain ever by your side.

Let the common man waste his life riding around in a vehicle waiting to be blown up on some dusty foreign street! True leaders have greater things to do. Does the pursuit and accumulation of wealth cease during a time of war? Of course not! How admirable to see Bush and his coterie of confidants not let a wayward invasion and a sinking economy stand in the way of their reaping great fortunes. Truly they possess all the qualities of greatness, and I commend the slack jawed Cheetos eating yokels who voted for them, not once, but twice.

Although labeled dumb, which they very well may be, and in fact are, they enjoyed two momentary flashes of intelligence which allowed them to put their own insignificant self interests aside, and put into power the elite, who can then do as Jehovah intended, namely, read scripture, hunt, golf, and manipulate the world and the millions of hapless people who stand in the way of their agenda of amassing power and fortune. I hereby put forth the motion that all the millions of unwashed and pathetic little people who are not blown up or reduced to utter destitution, be given a parade, or a plaque of some sort, commemorating their heroic decision to vote into power the great assemblage of leisure loving wealthy men who prosper while they drown, who lounge while they perish.

Let the stupid toil tirelessly 40 hours a week! Let them look up to their betters in Washington, and hope that one day, in heaven perhaps, they too can spend their days idling, sending others off to die, and smirking in the glory of their awesomeness.

The Case of the Pilfered Penis

I was impelled to venture to the Congo when I got wind of one of the most dastardly crime waves ever perpetrated on this spinning globe of ours. It seems as though some rogue sorcerers were going about casting spells and stealing men's penises for sport and profit. What mischievous dogs! I was supremely fascinated when I read of the terror gripping the people...and who could blame them, for a penis is certainly worth holding onto. I dare say that may have been a pun!

These wizards were not content to merely steal penises, they are also accused of blackmailing their victims, demanding cash or else the penis would not be returned! This of course set my mind wandering...just where were these pilfered penises stored? Is there a giant bamboo warehouse deep in the heart of Africa filled to the brim with stolen scrotum? Or are the testes left in place when the theft occurs? Have cautious Congolese taken to hiding dye packs in their knickers, set to explode should the penis be removed?

When my travelling time machine had set down in Kinshasa, I took to interviewing local members of the populace, who were only too eager to talk to someone as dashing as me. I was wearing a plumed fedora with cordovan...well I suppose my dress can wait, let us get back to the stolen penises shall we?

It seems as though these 13 suspected sorcerers would simply touch the victim, which would cause the penis to be stolen...or, gasp, to shrink! The townspeople were in quite a state of panic at this news, and were told to be on the lookout for men in communal taxis who bore gold rings. I counseled them to beware of shaman eyeing their fancy bits, which seems more to the point to me!

Of course one has to wonder why these magical penis snatchers don't simply use their magic to conjure cash? It would seem far simpler than raiding the land for cock, and far more hygienic. I don't know if these thieving wizards wear gloves, but there seems to me no amount of booty that can be worth handling so much strange penis.

My queries were met with much consternation from the understandably panicked people, and I heard whispers that I was in fact the head sorcerer. As i was enjoying lunch I did not feel it appropriate to respond to such base accusations, nor did I pay much attention when I heard one say he could prove I was in fact the head sorcerer, by showing that I had no penis at all!

I wonder, is it true that head sorcerers are penis-less? I can't recall my professors at Cambridge or Oxford ever touching on the subject.

In any event I was pulled from my repast with force and my trousers removed before the frenzied crowd, but soon their rage turned to surprise and mirth.

"He is a victim! A sorcerer has shrunk his penis!"

A wave of horror coursed through me...could it be true?? Could some rascal of a wizard have shrunk my delectable?? I steeled myself and gazed downwards, but old Bully was there, intact and proud!

"Calm yourselves people! There is nothing to fear here! I can assure you that no miniaturization of my member has taken place, and I am wizard-touch free."

A ripple of giggles surged through the assembly, and one wag quipped, "Perhaps there was not enough to shrink."

I chortled, "You rogue you! I dare say I may not be a match in girth for you lot, but if..." I scanned the crowd for an especially delicious young morsel, "...you were to avail that young lady to me, I might give these devilish magicians something to work with."

My offer was met with great approval, and the maiden happily proffered herself on my luncheon table, right there on the street. Apparently the rumor I had taken to start, that intercourse with a plumed fedora wearing foreigner gave one complete protection from wizards, had taken root. The crowd momentarily forgot their penis snatching troubles, and our mid-afternoon copulating was met with much fanfare and joy.

Sea Weed

There I was lounging by the sea under the warm embrace of the sun, when I was approached by a nubile young female who asked if I had a light. She had long been admiring my pipe and I suppose could restrain herself no longer and felt compelled to approach, employing the classic "light" gambit.

Well I am usually not one to take such obvious bait, but her "bikini", as ladies bathing attire is now dubbed, was so revealing, that I found myself enchanted by it, and was ready to do her bidding. Thus I reached into the pocket of my dashing linen blazer, and brought my lighter forth. Her lips puckered as she held the cigarette between them. I paused.

"How old are you?" I queried.

"I'm 16!" She almost shouted her reply, seemingly worried that I would put the lighter away should she have been 15.

"I say that's marvelous! Taking up smoking at such a young age shall give you an air of grace and dignity in no time, as well as adding a delightfully husky timber to your quavering voice."

She arched her eyebrows. "Whatever dude. I smoke weed too."

"Indeed!"

"Yeah it's no big deal, I also do ecstasy. Had some last night and never did go to sleep."

"I say! You seem so spry and full of life nonetheless! You must have a remarkable constitution."

As I marvelled she took the lighter from my hand and lit her cigarette herself, and I took the opportunity to ogle her body.

"Are your parents aware of your...shall we say, hobbies?"

"They split a long time ago," she shrugged her shoulders, "my mom don't care."

Just then a pelican dove and plucked a fish from the nearby sea. "Holy shit look at that fucker!"

"That pilfering rascal! Careful he doesn't snatch your stash."

She scowled at me. "He'd better fucking not."

I smiled. There is something to be said for the empowerment of women after all. "You know, you remind me of a working wench I knew in Canterbury..."

Alas she was not listening, as she had passed out under a nearby coconut tree.