I daresay you have seen me, atop Everest, swimming the Channel or astride a horse galloping through your home. As you are aware, I travel, in the manner of my forebears, with great amounts of luggage and wherewithal. I travel with maids and Sherpas and valets. I do not travel to meet others. I do not travel to enjoy free time in the open air. I travel in order to beat native peoples with my fists.

I take you along, you with your small brain, on a recent journey of mine to the ancient island nation of Poora-poora, a South Pacific stronghold of the Prince Faulungunga. I take you along, with my larger brain, so that I might show you what it takes to sail the seven seas with vigor and manliness, to defeat lesser men without breaking a sweat, to steal women while leaving my monocle in its lofty perch of my face.

Day 1:

Poora-poora harbor, Poora-poora. I arrive by cigarette boat. The loud nature of the motor calms me like so much meditation, but the natives seem disturbed. Indeed, the first child I see, a wretched, dirty little boy-man with a distended belly and hair all-asunder, crapped himself right there, directly in my line of view, as I pulled the ocean-navigator's equivalent of a donut. Yes, my crappy little friend, I am here, and I am here in a loud boat, to make your father cry like a little girl for his mommy.

Day 2:

The hut of Miss Nellie Fire-and-Ice, huntress/seductress and daughter of the grand-poobah overlord, his Royal Highness Prince Faulungunga. Ahhh, she of the raven hair and the smooth skin, made all the softer by the raw cocoa butter she spreads over her cheeks. I am your vassal, lady, as I told your husband when I strung him up by his rather prodigious nose-hairs in yonder tall palm tree. "Away from the cigarette boat!!" I instructed him, in perfect BBC English. "Away, Rascal!" Did he heed my unambiguous instruction? No. Did I string him up? Yes. Did I cut off his arms or other appendages? No.

Day 3:

Must it always provide me such pleasure to beat others senseless? I find it so soothing. Today, a man-man, full of vigor, strong and sinewy, approached me with what might have amounted to a peace offering, in his petty mind. To me, however, the rudely-constructed pipe filled with damp, island tobacco that he held out resembled a spear, a dagger, a jet airplane with machine guns a- strafing. I stood my ground, assumed the dragon stance, and prepared to introduce my oncoming "friend" to his maker. With a thwack and a heave-ho, I struck him about the face and sternum, sending him, without luggage, to his final destination -- the sandy ground.

Day 4:

When I dine, especially in the tropics, I prefer to start my meal with something a bit chilled, perhaps a mango salad or a juice cocktail. I find that banana and pineapple, for example, mix quite well. On this fine day, with the sun warming my buttocks and toes, I sat with my new friend, a 12 year old boy named something-or-other, whom I have honored through enslavement. He prepares a nice dish, this something-or-other boy, and, by the time I have finished teaching him what this grand explorer needs, he will be invaluable to all mankind.

Day 5:

I learned the wretched language of these little people today. Of course, no sooner had I packed these nonsense words into my spacious brain than I flushed them out with the semi-powerful tonic these natives prepare for sacred rituals. To me, of course, this potion they gave me to drink is little more than a weak ale. But to my new compatriots, this stuff is life itself. I chose to forget their dialect, as it were. I did, though, at the same time play a little joke for myself, or rather a pun, wherein I handed out to several passers-by a "tongue-lashing", with a whip, just to make up for the fact that I had learned and then discarded their native "tongue" all in day five. They quite enjoyed the joke, if I do say so.

Day 6:

After administering a wholloping good time to the face and shoulders of a particularly unpleasant father of two, I sat for my morning shave and meal. The something-or-other boy has now got the knack of the shave, with its up-up quality. Some of these natives, I have found, have a tendency to up-down-up, in all of its nonsense. Only a Welshman or Chinaman could prefer such technique. I upbraided the boy, and rightfully so, for which he was immediately thankful. Bright boy, that. And maker of eggs most divine, after my abusive instruction.

Day 7:

Today I departed my good friends. They bear bruises, yes, and some resentment, but they know, with all of their hearts, that I have introduced them to civilization, that I have left them with a piece of my lordly self, a gift more grand than they or their forefathers have known. Huzzah.