Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Tinytanic (by disgruntled guest-blogger, Gadfly Lad)
Sure, make the Bgztlian do all the work. And the Protean doesn't even get to sit in the boat! It has to swim alongside. Unless, maybe it's in training for the Space-Olympics...?
It's me, again. Gadfly Lad. I'm not blogging because Storm Boy asked me to. In fact, he's stopped asking me to!
Let me back up.
I guess I should have realized that if Storm Boy was going to ask me to guest-blog, that he might actually read what I wrote. He called me into his office -- by which, I mean Eyeful Ethel's -- to chew me out over my "insubordination." He demanded to know why I didn't respect him. (And that's the hallmark of an effective manager, double-eyeroll.) So I told him! I said that while I respected his scientific genius, I thought he was a disaster as a leader. I started to give him what I'm sure would have been only between 6.8852 and 7.0023 minutes of explanation for this, but he only let me get to the 1.7304 minute mark before he interrupted me. He shouted, "I ONCE RAN A MULTI-BILLION-CHEDDAH COMPANY!"
And I said, "Yeah, INTO THE GROUND!"
And then he fired my ass. That's right!
I told him I was planning on quitting, anyway. (Confession time: I totally wasn't, you guys. But that's just between us.) Dentata Damsel poked her head through the door and murmured that she was quitting, too, since she'd gotten an offer to (subliminally) narrate a new line of "better sex" holo-vids from Paramount-Universo. Out of sheer spite, I snatched up a big stack of Storm Boy's comics off his desk (YOINK!) and I buzzed out the door. Storm Boy's sole remaining employee is now Frigid Queen, and she spends most of her time macking on and/or pummeling Phantom Lad. It gets hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Not that I'm any expert, mind you. But I'm pretty sure a lady wouldn't like it if I punched her in the boob.
...Hang on. I just heard the buzzer go off on the sonic clothes-tumbler.
Okay. Let's see, here... spare costume (all warm from the clothes-tumbler!), three cans of concentrated space-java, one pack of soylent jerkey, polymer underpants, road flare, my super-disguise kit... and I'm good.
Screw this nonsense!
I'm gonna find Blockade Boy.
Tomorrow in this spot: who the hell knows anymore?