Tuesday, January 17, 2006

 

The Emperor Hath Clothes

To get this project started on the right note, we thought it would be fitting to publish a stirringly magnificent piece of verse from our eldest and most accomplished contributor, Dr. George Jefferson Monroe. Dr. Monroe is a military historian and gentleman farmer residing in southern Indiana, where he oversees his 10,000-acre soybean plantation, Valhalla. He is the author of more than 90 books, pamphlets and monographs on topics as diverse as fruit canning, waterboarding and mastering disguise. Perhaps best known for his magnum opus, “The End of Reality: The Whip and Wisdom of Dr. George Jefferson Monroe, Patriot & Duelist,” Dr. Monroe’s latest book, “Bloodbath - Reflections on Eight Massacres that Built Western Civilization” is available to vetted members of the public through PNAE Press, New York.

The Emperor Hath Clothes

Being a Seasonal Ode to Power from Our Meager Estate

In October, when the First Veins of Crimson appear 'pon the leaves here at inconsequential Valhalla, our Attentions turn to preparing the Cellars for Game and Preserves, and knitting precious wee Frost Blankets for the Strange Fruit saplings, and fattening the Servants’ Buttocks for the Harvest Rape Festival.

Lo! So, too, do our Thoughts dwell ’pon George W. Bush, and the Bounty that erupts from his Presidential horn!

In January, when the Fierce North Wind buffets our Humble manor house, we take Grim Solace in our reserves of Port, Welsh Rarebit and Internet porn.

Lo! So, too, do our Thanks go towards Our Leader’s warm Sanctuary of Executive Grace, so Moistened as to allow Entry to all who suffer the Slings and Arrows in this Winter of our Treasonous Discontent!

In April, when the first blades of Grass poke through at our Modest three-field polo facility, our Prayers are offered to the Heavens, and to God, and to His Only Son, and to the Invisible Hand for Which It Stands.

Lo! So, too, do our Supplications sing for the very Wise Wisdom of our Commander-in-Chief, in all his Wisdomly Wiseness!

In July, when the poop is in the glen at the Modest 10,000-acre Mote we call “Home”, we regurgitate our afternoon repast of Quail Feather Soufflé in a Heroin Sauce for the Sake of the Children.

Lo! So, too, is our Vomit aimed for the Succor of our beleaguered Captain, alone in his Phalanx of Treasury Agents, supplicants, well-wishers and assorted Heads-of-State!

And Lo! So, too, we Pledge: Sing this Song and Say this Saying-thing we shall, each Season anew, lest the Sun should topple from its Mountain Fastness, and the Sky from its Batlike Perch, lest the Stars themselves should sunder into a Billion Gaseous Bodies dispersed across the Celestial Night, and the Seasons thus Laid Low should cease!





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