Friday, August 09, 2002

dark pt. 2
prelude - pt. 1

Dark sat on his apartment balcony and enjoyed the evening with a Cuban cigar he'd smuggled back with him from Mexico a month ago. Con Sombrero was the brand name. A fairly new company out of Havana with something of a roguish reputation in the Cuban cigar industry. Their executive CEO and President was Johnny Ricardo. Apparently his grandfather had been a cousin of Ricky Ricardo, the old timer from the "I Love Lucy" reruns.

The stogie tasted magnificent, and Dark settled into his easy chair for the first round of Jeopardy! with Alex Trebek. Although he would never mention it in mixed company, it was Rion's ultimate secret fantasy to appear on the game show. He wouldn't even mind if he won or lost, as long as he got the questions to a few answers and held his own.

It had gotten messy today with Bryant. They had sawed off his left foot and his right hand, and were threatening to saw the man's dick off, before he finally caved and spilled some names. Dark had made a phone call, and wheels had gone into motion. A little over an hour later, Dark's cell phone rang. The names had checked out, and the matter had been dealt with.

They had immediately shot Bryant in the head, killing him instantly, much to the relief of all three men involved. Well, Tony maybe could have gone another round.
A nasty business indeed. But Dark was what he was. He had taken a certain path long ago, and he meant to see it through to the end, whatever the outcome.

That night, Dark dreamed. He dreamed of a roomful of men, all dressed to the tees in almost laughable gangster stereotype Armani-style suits. Pinstripes and tommy-guns, the whole schtick. Dark was in the room with these men, but he was not dressed in a zoot suit, but a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. He looked down and saw a pair of flip-flop sandals on his feet, with some sand clinging to his toes. He glanced at the t-shirt and it read:

My Grandma went all the way to Waikiki
And all she brought me was this Stupid T-Shirt

There was a picture of a pineapple under the writing. The pineapple was smiling at him, shifting its eyes and blinking menacingly.

The men in the room, all of whom spoke in heavy Italian accents, seemed not to notice him. They were situated around a large table, eating gobs of spaghetti and fettuccine, while a dancing girl, clad only in green cotton panties, shook her hips in the style of a belly dancer. The girl had a wide smile on her face, a smile that Dark could immediately tell was fabricated for the satisfaction of her audience. Beneath the façade of good cheer was a healthy core of fear. If Dark had learned one thing in his years of torture (and he had learned many things) it was how to detect fear, and this girl was absolutely terrified, despite her appearance. Her eyes were captivating, she was no doubt beautiful, some kind of Asian/Polynesian mix apparently, with wide, childbearing hips, a smooth, slightly rounded belly, and perky, b-cup breasts. Her areolas were quite wide. Dark realized he was salivating.

Suddenly the girl's gaze shifted directly to Rion's eyes. In those eyes he saw a wisdom, an understanding, as well as a horrible secret, one that Dark was not sure he wanted revealed to him. The men around the table had taken no apparent note of the silent communication between Dark and the girl.

He could not have averted his gaze from the girl's eyes, even if he had wanted to. There was a yearning there, she was a prisoner, and Dark realized that he wanted her free. Not necessarily for himself, but for her own liberty. Her eyes were quite dark; if they weren't black they were an intensely dark brown, and a tear had begun to form in the bottom of her left eye. Those eyes burned straight through to the soul that Dark thought he had long ago abandoned. It was wonderful and dreadful all at the same time. He felt the basic fabric of his being unraveling, losing form, and he didn't know what it meant but he felt that nothing would ever be the same, ever again.

Suddenly there was a loud pounding, coming from where, he couldn't tell. The men around the table kept eating their pasta, pouring generous helpings of dark red wine, spilling it all over their faces, and ogling the young girl, who continued her exotic dance, continued pounding Dark with that strange, woeful gaze. The fear in her eyes turned to panic, as the volume and speed of the pounding increased. There was one last, desperate look from her, that seemed to say everything and nothing all at the same time, and she was gone. The table was gone, the men were gone, the spaghetti was gone, and the Waikiki shirt that Grandma had got him was gone as well. He was in a place of blackness, and the pounding became louder, faster.

Suddenly, he awoke to find himself drenched in sweat, his sheets soaking wet. He tried to hold onto the image of the girl's face, but it was fading fast. The only thing that remained was the pounding. The pounding.

Someone was banging away on his front door. He reached underneath his mattress for the glock and crawled on hands and knees to the front room, immediately awake and cognizant, the dream forgotten for now, his mind on the matter at hand.

A voice came from the other end of the door, full of panic. "Malone! It's Cherico! Are you there? It's Cherico!!" Cherico. It was Tony. Cherico was one of his code names, Malone was one of Dark's. Some serious shit was apparently going down. Dark rose to his feet, and opened the door. The chain remained in place and the glock remained cocked. Always assume the worst, everyone is your enemy until they prove otherwise. Especially pricks that break you away from a dream like that. (Those eyes those eyes.)

It was Tony all right. "What in the fuck do you want?" Dark said. "You're probably waking up all my fucking neighbors." As he poked his head out and looked left to right, he saw a light turn on two doors down. Mrs. Bellimont. A snoopy old broad. "Get the fuck in here." He pulled Tony inside.

Listening to Iron Maiden, 7th Son. Song 2, Infinite Dreams. Badass.

One of the major comic books of the last 20 years was the Dark Knight Returns, by Frank Miller. It was a four-issue series that chronicled the future life of a long retired Batman, about age 55-60. He kinda goes nuts with all the crazy shit still happening in the world, so becomes Batman again, even though soceity outlawed heroes in the future, all except Superman who sells out to an ancient Ronal Reagan in a futuristic wheelchair. There's a girl robin, you get to see Batman kick Superman's ass, and there's a big joker showdown with all kinds of dramatic overtones cuz joker killed the 2nd robin.

It was super good. You should read it. You should also read Watchmen, a 12 part series from around that time. There's compilation books for both of these so you can read the whole thing. See here, this person agrees, these books are badass pieces of literature. There I've been verified so approve my fukn credit line so I can hook up some bathroom tile beyotch!

Anyway I digress. The reason I'm discussing it is I just picked up the third and final installment of the Dark Knight 2 series they've got out now. This 3rd book was super late, and I'd heard that it sucks ass, but I'm gonna sit and read and judge for myself. Maybe I'll talk about it later.


berkeley joe

Thursday, August 08, 2002

Well I have in my hot little hands the new Sports Illustrated college football preview. They're picking Oklahoma #1. Cal is #85.

All they have to say about Cal is, "Coach Jeff Tedford, formerly the offensive coordinator for rival Oregon, has a massive rebuilding job."

Yeah, no shit. Ah, another year of Cal football, in which I will have a false sense of hope for as long as I am able to totally deny reality. (Which can be a pretty long time.) That and they're on probation this year, which means no bowl game even if they go 11-0, which is about as likely as a guy with an English accent and a flourescent suit coming out of my refrigerator and singing "Always look on the bright side of life."

Meaning there's a slight possibility.

Just please beat Stanford. You can be everyone's bitch the whole season, but find those little round things in your pants, gather them up, and win one for Oski. Look at him he's calling you out. "Stop sucking ass!" he's saying. I can read his lips.

Speaking of football, I just noticed last week that the Raiders picked up Rod Woodson, one of the best of all time, during the offseason. Hell yeah. That almost makes up for the fact that I somehow have to learn how to root for Bill Romanowski.

Eric Neel has written a very very good Chick Hearn column. Damn if I didn't get a little teary-eyed. Props to Ken Layne for giving it some pub yesterday.

I am very picky about my game shows. Love Jeopardy. Hate Wheel of Fortune. I was, however, a captive audience at the gym yesterday on the elliptical motion machine or whatever the hell you call that thing (it's basically a stairmaster) - anyway, I got stuck staring at the dreaded Wheel, and after noticing that Vanna White looks like she's gotten some serious plastic surgery in the last few years, I noticed something that pissed me off. She doesn't even have to turn the letters anymore!! Last I saw, she had to walk over, actually turn around the little block with the letter on the back, and walk back to her post. Now she just walks over and taps the block and it automatically shows the letter.

How long has this been going on? Am I totally off base being outraged by this? They pay this lady who knows how much cash to turn letters around, and she doesn't even do THAT anymore!!! What the hell do they need her for?!? I mean, she just taps the letters, she ain't doing shit! At least the Price is Right girls don't pretend like they're doing something, they just stand there and position their arms like, "look at this fine lawnmower, jackass."

Maybe I'm just crazy.

All right, that's all for today. Don't forget the Ovaltine.

Edgar was a bloody mess when Dark arrived. One eyelid had been completely torn off, and Tony had been squirting lemon juice on the exposed pupil periodically throughout the day. Still the little fucker hadn't squealed. That was fine, just fine. The tougher the nut, the more enjoyable the final crack.

"Well your lunch break is over now, Bryant. Mr. Dark isn't going to be nearly as nice to you as I've been." Tony was crouched in front of Edgar, who was strapped to a wooden chair with reinforced leather straps and a couple layers of barbed wire. Duct tape had been wrapped around his mouth. "You got anything to say before my esteemed colleague starts going to work on you?

Bryant nodded his head.

"Well! Maybe this asshole's finally wised up." Tony ripped the tape off of the man's mouth quickly, bringing a soft yelp out of the victim's small frame.

"Well? What you got for us buddy?" Tony looked at Bryant intently, hoping he could take credit with the boss for getting some information out of this particularly stubborn little man.

A faint smile crossed the visage of the bald man, barely visible among all the cuts and gashes that had been inflicted across his face. A thin line of drool was slowly seeping down the left side of his chin. "Fuck your mother."

Now the smile was on the face of Tony, but it wasn't a faint one. Tony was grinning from ear to ear, like the joker in a deck of cards. He'd heard much, much worse remarks from victims in his years of torture work, and had only let himself lose it a couple of times. "You dumb motherfucker. You just got to do things the hard way, hmmm?"

Without another word, Tony left the room, headed toward their equipment stash in the adjoining chamber. The torture was being conducted in the basement of an old abandoned book factory, which Don Scalari owned, although the paperwork from the building could never be traced back to him. The whole bottom floor had been completely soundproofed, which had really only necessitated soundproofing the ceiling, as the two large rooms were completely underground.

As Tony rummaged around in the next room, Dark looked at Bryant without saying a word. Unless he was asked to do so, Dark never interfered in another torturer's methodology. Torture seemed to work best as a one-on-one encounter. The intimacy that this provided usually generated a deeper, more pure, fear in the victim than could be created with a large group of people. Bryant did not say a word, either. This was his third straight day of constant pain and agony, and he knew the routine. During the first few shift changes when Dark relieved someone else working on Bryant, he had tried to beg or plead or offer exorbitant amounts of cash if only he could escape somehow. Now the little man just sat there like a whipped dog. Not quite so whipped, though, that he didn't have a little shit-talking left in him, apparently.

"Now we'll see how fucking funny this pile of shit thinks he is," announced Tony as he came back into the room. He was carrying a hacksaw and an acetylene torch. "What do you think, Dark? Put the tape back over his mouth or should we listen to this little bitch scream?"

"It's your party, Tony."

"I think it would do my heart good to hear this canary sing, as long as he ain't gonna talk." There was a definite gleam in Tony's eyes. He was really into this one.

"You want to give me a hand, Rion? This is gonna get a little messy."

"Sure thing. This is technically my shift anyway." Dark knew what Tony had in store, he just wasn't sure which limb, and how much of it, was coming off. The hacksaw was for removal. The acetylene torch for sealing the wound. Not exactly hospital quality, but this was going to be a very different kind of surgery.

read the prelude at busblog

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

Joe Rogan, the host of Fear Factor and formerly of News Radio, went to an Extreme Elvis show, and you can read about it and see pictures here.

WARNING! This is not for the meek. If you don't want to see a big fat Elvis Impersonator get naked and engage in serious SERIOUS debauchery, don't follow the link. You have been warned.

But for those of us with that kind of humor, enjoy.

continuing stream of consciousness week...

did you ever play that game "jinx bathroom" when you were a kid, where if you said the same thing at the exact same time as someone else, and you said "jinx bathroom" first, the other person couldn't go to the bathroom until you said so? yeah me neither.

OK, I like John Madden just as much as the next guy, I mean, I was locked up in a dark room with only a jar of peanut butter for three days in 1994 playing Madden football on Super Nintendo. I was always the Atlanta Falcons, Andre Rison was UNBEATABLE at wide receiver on that game, all you had to do was chuck it in the air to him, and he'd catch it, and plus you had Deion at corner. Anyway, I digress, big Madden fan. I mean this guy coached my beloved Raiders to the Super Bowl title back in the day. But I saw something in the paper the other day that made me cough up my goats milk. Lesley Visser, former Monday Night football sideline reporter, and I quote: "John is the best observer we've had since Mark Twain."

Really. Since Mark Twain, huh. Author of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, one of the OG's of American Literature? The guy that hokks fukn Rent a Center and Tough actin' Tinactin is right up there, huh? Oh yeah and Al Michaels is the most articulate speaker since Abraham Lincoln. Sure you dumb hobag.


Saw Signs last night. That movie is fukn IN-TENSE. Good good flick. I'd say the 2nd quarter lags a little, just a smidgen mind you, but the payoff is well worth it. I'm pretty convinced now that aliens took my missing $11 and my Gang Starr CD. Also, I couldn't find my deodorant this morning. Aliens. I haven't seen them, but I can smell them, and they can probably smell me now that they jacked my Irish Spring, those bastards.

Last week Jim Treacher was pontificating on the subject of Mr. Fantastic and Elongated Man and that they weren't real swingers, despite their stretchable appendages, due to their status as married men. That really got me thinking. Then I realized, what about Plastic Man? He wasn't married was he? And he could like turn into cars and basketball hoops and stuff like that. Now that guy was probably a major pimp. Plus he always hung out with that really goofy-looking short guy, so he looked pretty cool in comparison despite that really horrible outfit he wore.

I'm pretty sure the Thing (pictured above) couldn't have sex, but the Hulk could. I don't know if he ever did, though. Whoever was his partner in that endeavor is probably in a lot of pain to this day. PS I heard that in the new Hulk movie coming out next year, the Hulk's gonna be naked all the time, no torn up purple pants, just well placed chairs and fig leaves I guess (hope). I don't want to see the Hulk's schlonger on a 20 foot movie screen.

I don't want to see Ben Affleck as Daredevil on a 20 foot screen either, but that prophecy is doomed to come true I'm afraid.

I'm going way to deep into comic book nerd-dom this morning so I'm cutting myself off. That's it for you Scrappy, call that boy a cab, no more Jim Beam for that drunk son of a bitch at the end of the bar. But Chuck, one more, on more Beam and Coke, I promise I'll be a good boy. No more playing peanut shuffle board, no more singing Purple Rain at the top of my lungs with cheese doodles stuffed in my shorts, no more hollow promises, back alley deals, or shady elbow-jives when Vanilla Ice comes on the Jukebox.

no more, I promise.

ferget it you're outta here.


Tuesday, August 06, 2002

continuing stream of consciousness week.

Still haven't figured out where my $11 went. I got a voice mail with some muffled whispers which might have been the ten spot or its kidnappers, but they didn't make any demands. Why are they fukking with me like this? Just let them go! All I want to know is that they're in a good home, that they're not being abused! And remember they like story-time at 9:30 PM sharp and they do NOT like watching Leno, but they will stay up for Conan.

I have a theory about girl-boy duos in popular culture which I'd like to bounce off of you. What? You don't want to hear about it? Well tough shit, I'm gonna talk about it, and I might talk about it for three hours so just enjoy. This is not a pirate cable box where you can just change the channel. This is channel zero. And you are my slave. And my name is Big Jim Slade. And, and, and - sorry about that. This stream of conscousness thing can get a wee bit dangerous in the hands of the inexperienced, which is not me, but well, you know what I mean.

So anyway, my theory. Have you ever noticed that when there's a boy-girl duo of young hero types, the girl is always more capable and powerful than the boy? I've got some examples.

1. Zan and Jayna. That's right. The goddam Wondertwins. This is just too obvious. Jayna can turn into ANY animal. Zan can change into ANY water-based thing. Fukn great. Jayna's like, form of a grizzly bear, and Zan's like, form of a bucket of water, oh wait, I can't make a bucket, um Gleek, can you go get a bucket to hold my sorry ass? The best Zan could do was be like an "ice-monster" which would usually get its ass kicked anyway until Jayna turned into a Tyranosauras Rex and saved his ass again. OK case #1, proven in the bank. Indisputable.

2. Those two jackasses that were with the superfriends before Zan and Jayna. I don't even remember their names but they had Ruff the Wonderdog or some shit like that. It was some dumbass teenage boy that was like "duh duh duh, jeepers aquaman, that's a big sea urchin" and the girl was like frikken Sherlock Holmes, she was Miss Genius.

3. Those two kids on Escape to Witch Mountain, that old Disney movie. These were the two alien kids with powers. Except the girl could basically do ANYTHING, I mean she had full on telekenesis, mind powers, she could pull a yoda and move around giant boats, the whole kaboodle from what I remember. The boy on the other hand, he couldn't do anything without playing that stupid flute. He could play his flute and make some raisins dance around but that was about it. It would be like, oh shit, Anna, they took my flute and they're not allergic to raisins, save me!! That girl was scary.

4. Pippi Lonstocking. OK they were a trio. Both of those other kids besided Pippi were pretty weak and stupid, and actually the girl was worse, always whining and stuff, but Pippi could kick anyone's ass, and she had a trippy hairdo, and she could pilot a pirate ship. So if you morph Tommy and Annika into one person and matched them against Pippi, I mean, no contest. OK I'll grant this is a weak example, but gimme a break, you know you wanted to think about Pippi Longstocking and I just gave you an excuse without feeling like a jackass.

5. Maxwell Smart and Agent 38 or whatever her name was from Get Smart! Maxwell Smart was the biggest Dumbass in the history of television, and he always got all the credit, but agent 69 or whatever always really solved the case. You gotta give Max Smart props for the shoe-phone though, so this one's a borderline case.

6. Inspector Gadget and his niece Penny. Same as #5 but not a sexual relationship, thank goodness. Penny always solved the case with that goofy dog, and Inpsector Gadget always took the credit. PS did you have that joke when you were a kid about "Inspector Fuzz"? No? um, me neither.

7. Mork and Mindy. Even though Mork was really powerful he was a dumbass that always fukked everything up and Mindy had to save the day. Except she had really bad clothes. Besides that she seemed really nice. Oh and Mork lived in an egg, which means he's still in the anal stage, I asked my psychology professor.

8. Bewitched. Darren was a dumbass and Sabrina was a badass witch with a real bitchy mother. Even their daughter could probably kick Darren's ass, even though she had to move her nose with her finger.

9. Beetle Bailey. The only person portrayed with any semblance of intelligence in that whole comic strip are General Halftrack's secretaries. Everyone else is bumbling around like a total idiot, except for Beetle, who is a lazy pile of dogshit, but somehow all the girls want him. This was basically my excuse for being a lazy-ass for like 15 years, I figured, chicks dig slackers.

What does all this mean? Look in your heart, my young student, and I think you'll see it, clear as day. And now that you know, take a good long look in the mirror and ask yourself, have I hugged my dog today? It's time to catch up on quality time with Scraps, Rusty, whatever you call that precious bundle of fleas and ticks. No amount of critical analysis on pop culture can subsitute for that.

peace out and aloha


I've decided that this week is stream of consciousness week here at ultrablognetic. There was no vote, no committee, no debate, I am the supreme ruler and I decreed it and that's it. If you have an issue with it, begone.

But please come back, I need attention.

Anyway. You know when you can't stop thinking about something all day? I can't stop thinking about the $11 dollars that was in my wallet yesterday, and now it's gone. I don't know where it went. I'm scared it's out there on the streets, hustling for a piece of bread, being taken advantage of by travelers cheques and japanese yen. Just an innocent pair, a ten and a one, all alone, them against the world. What became of them?

I HATE when I lose money. I'm wondering if someone in the gym stole it out of my wallet in my locker last night. But they would have had to pick my lock (which is a little $2 piece of shit) then rifle through my stuff, not take anything but the cash, put everything back just the way it was, and then lock my locker again.

I'm thinking aliens took it, but who knows.

The other thing that's bugging me is I can't find my Gang Starr CD. I was reading Source magazine the other night and saw a reference to it and then thought, shit I haven't listened to that for a while, and it's missing. Maybe it's out on Hotel street with the transvestite hookers with my $11.

Maybe. Stranger things have happened.

I'd like to give special props to my sister Shannon and Jim Treacher. They are the only kind souls that sent me e-mail after my pathetic whining plea yesterday. They are the official recipients of good vibes. I am radiating them right... NOW. They are harmless, don't worry, and will bring you good luck and discounts in the cereal aisle.

Still pretty bummed about Chickie-baby. The best eulogy I've read so far was from this guy. Check it out. He has a cool site.

Bumpin' Snoop Dogg Doggystyle. Did you know that Snoop Dogg has a blog? He hardly ever updates it, but when he does, it's usually pretty good nuggets of wisdom. I decided the other day that the ultimate concert would be Snoop Dogg opening up for Iron Maiden. But Maiden would be prohibited from playing anything post-Powerslave, except for a couple cuts off of Seventh Son. They would also be required to play at least half of Number of the Beast. Snoop could play whatever the hell he wanted too, as long as he dipped heavily into Doggystyle, and it would be nice if Dr. Dre was there, but I can flexible on that. I realize that in this day and age, Snoop is a bigger concert pull, but it's my ultmate concert, so deal with it.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Monday, August 05, 2002

Chick Hearn died today.

Damn that sucks.

Chickie-baby was the king of the mic, the inventor of the words "slam-dunk" and "airball" and one of the major class acts of sports and the broadcast industry. Laker games will never be the same. Who's gonna put em in the refrigerator the way Chick did?

As someone who grew up in the LA area, Chick's voice is prevalent in so many memories. The OG master of the simulcast, he was on the radio and the TV. The real Angelino's would bump Chick on the radio when the Laker games were on NBC and turn down the TV volume so they didn't have to hear Bill Walton and the joker gang desecrate the Laker experience. Every time I picture Magic or Kareem busting a move to the net, making a sweet dish, a killer skyhook, whatevahs, I hear Chick's voice in my head.

I don't know what else to say. I'm bummed. Rest in Peace.

Monday. Around 10 AM. Bumpin' Outkast Aquemini.

Saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding this weekend. Funny as hell. Watch it. Sounds like a chick flick, but really it's not, I laughed my frikken ass off, maybe harder than I laughed at Austin Powers. Mrs. P and I got a little extra kick out of it as we could relate to the whole cross-culture marriage thing, which is the big joke in the movie.

Send me a frikken e-mail for chrissake. Just click over on where it says tell me a story on the left. Nobody e-mail's me. I'm sitting here at the skunkworks crying right now cuz no one cares. Even if you think I suck so hard that I should be killed, let me know, tell me just how horrible I really am. Like Mark Anthony, I need to know.

Remember those little comic books they would give you at Bob's Big Boy? Those were cool. Even though Bob was such a big fat ass, he was like, so mr. popular, and that one girl was so in love with him, and he was like, whatever baby, go get me a hamburger will ya?

Did you know that the only people that are legally allowed to test and research marijuana in the US are the pharmaceutical companies?? The university system is not allowed to touch it. Talk about letting the foxes in the chickenhouse. (Jack Herer's analogy, not mine) Jack Herer is the author of the highly informative and unbelievably mind-boggling The Emperor Wears No Clothes. Basically, the pharmaceutical companies lobbied the hell out of the federal government to allow ONLY THEM to do cannabis research, so they could find "safe" alternatives, meaning less effective, more expensive, and with varying side-effects.

I read a story in the paper a couple weeks ago which I'll be following with much interest. The city of San Francisco is so fed up with the Feds raiding the local legal medical marijuana disbursement centers and shutting them down, that they are going to put a vote on the ballot to grow and distribute medical marijuana on city property, at city-owned and operated facilities. Let's see if the FBI will kick in the doors of city property. This should be a federalism standoff at its best. I mean what the FUCK did our founding fathers write the goddamm constitution for if the federal government is going to override every law that local and state governements put up to ballot, vote on, and pass through legal channels? Bush and Cheney are so busy making sure the big money pharmaceutical companies are getting their dirty dollar's worth out of buying their fukn allegiance. All so fat cats can line their pockets while cancer and AIDS patients scrape up the last of their coin for fake pot pills that don't work half as well as the real thing which they can't get because ATF might kick in their door and knock them out of their wheel chairs.

All for the mighty dollar. This country I tell you….

11 AM - Power Outage!

The following is a transcript from the notes I was able to take:

We have had a massive power outage. The backup systems held up the computers, but we were forced to shut down quickly. Without electricity, we have reverted to our neanderthal state. Graham, our service technician, has taken the boss hostage in the bathroom, threatening physical and psychological warfare. I am barricaded in my office by a pack of wild dogs. Their teeth are gnarling and foaming and they have death in their eyes. I am afraid but trying to hold on to my sanity. Must be strong, I want to see my wife again…

Worst of all, we may soon lose caller ID capability.

Lights come on. Shamed, I wipe the blood from my lips and hand the mail clerk back the stump that is left of his right arm. Guess I panicked a little. But the lunch wagon didn't come! It didn't come!!

So basically the power outage unnerved us, so the whole office took off to go eat and run errands. Usually I'm left behind to watch the store on these little sojourns, but the boss feels like a crowd today, so whatevers. First stop was to drop off a shipment of widgets to the Honouliuli Waste Water Treatment plant. The smell there was nearly unbearable. My coworker informed me this is because they are severely backlogged on getting rid of the waste that they cook it. So we were smelling cooked shit. It didn't smell good. It was one of those smells that is worse with your nose plugged, you can still taste it breathing through your mouth. Not good times.

Then we ate at Chili's. Phillie cheese steak sandwich. I am not someone that lets cooked shit smell ruin my appetite, goddammit. Not me.

Various more errands and we were back at the office. The excuse of the power outage firmly entrenched in our subconscious and posterior lobe, we resigned ourselves to the fact that today was a whatevahs kind of no work day. But I'm working anyway (after I write this) cuz I got shit to do. But not cooked shit, thank goodness.

Speaking of cooked shit, I'm listening to the new Def Leppard album. The resident Butt-Rocker in the office bought it and is letting me borrow it. Let me tell you, gone are the glory days of High N Dry and Pyromania. I mean how hardcore was Die Hard the Hunter and Rock of Ages??? (OK not that hardcore, but it ruled nonetheless) This new album is canned ballads and rehashed love songs by geezers dressed as Nsync but with receding hairlines. But I get a kick out of it cuz I'm a big dork and because Pyromania was the second album I ever bought, and I'm a sentimental fool.

Well, I have rambled long enough, so has they say in the Russian Steppes, peace out homeslice.