24 January 2006

I just got back from Newark and boy, are my lungs tired.

Well, actually, I got back on Sunday, but I slipped on the ice Monday morning and cracked my noggin on the sidewalk; resulting in a lovely, woozy headache that has lasted 36 hours. It was just the thing to have when showing around important visitors that simply. would. not. leave. until after midnight. Alcohol helped, but now I’m back at work where binge drinking is frowned upon, forcing me to resort to smoking opium.

Where was I? Oh, yes, Newark. Truth be told, Newark isn’t so bad; they’ve cleaned it up considerably over the last twenty years, making it perfectly fit for habitation by post-apocalyptic, radioactive, mutant freaks as long as they already have brain tumors.

I’ve been buying up land for my retirement dream home.

Besides, it’s just a stone’s throw away from Manhattan, if you have a carbide cannon; which I do. Just ask the Port Authority police; they are holding it for me in their evidence locker.

Anyway; Newark. Convenient location, toxic smog, large carnivorous swamp rats; what’s not to love?

So it was with heavy heart and massive hangover that I returned to bucolic splendor of central Pennsyltucky, with its’ broad sweeping vistas, and gentle delicately scented pig manure breezes. We were within forty or so miles from home, when we saw the first sign of spring, Pennsylvania’s state flower; the road construction sign.

So there we sat for fifteen minutes, in front of a flagman with an index finger two knuckles deep into his left nostril. In fact, the only indication that he was alive was the obscene writhing of his nose. If it weren’t for the nasal floor show, he could have been replaced with a bucket of sand, and twice as efficiently.

Finally, it dawned on Baby Einstein that there was no traffic coming in the other direction, so he flipped the sign from “Stop” to “Slow”. We proceeded down the single open lane only to encounter a long string of traffic coming the other direction.

You guessed it; Jethro Clampett’s identical twin was working the other side, with a broken radio.

Some day, if they keep screwing up badly enough, we may elect them to a high public office, but until that glorious day, they must keep struggling down the path of self improvement, with fingers firmly planted in nostrils.


FatMammyCat writes:

"Welcome back Evil, sorry to hear of you slip, I trust operation 'Blow up Stuff, or BS, is back on track. The new phenobarb syringes arrived, I stored them in the cistern in bubble wrap.

Oh and the Gov'ner of Alabama has been on, something about a glow in the dark hog on his pappy's ranch and some missle head with a barcode that was allegedly traced back to some lair you used to rent from a French guy called Claude von killalott, two Ts.

Anyhoo I smoothed thing over with him as PR are wont to do, but his wife/sister is expecting you to use the new mesh chemical peel on her neck Wednesday. I told her about the side effects but she said an extra tit was the least of her worries.

Ta, Fatmammycat."

Grand job, FMC, but I have to wonder, what is the rest of my management team doing, hmmm?


Vaporise Barney reports in:

And who was left to answer that scurrilous cartoon of the great one,posted by an imposter alluding to your lack of sexual success ?

Surely everyone knows by now that not only do you have the world at your feet,but also most of the female population on their knees before you.P.S.,along with my 15%, I'll be happy with any crumbs that may fall from your table,a few ugly gummy ones will do me.

Bow, scrape, scrape...

Well, I'm waiting, Dr. Maroon. Where's my new SCRAM-jet bomber?

And that's the way I likes it.