Huzzah!

Whirl, whirl, twist and twirl... jump around like a flying squirrel. You pull my beard, I'll pull your'n. Pick him up and hit 'im in the head. Hit 'im again, that critter ain't dead!


Dang! (I mean, damn!) You learn the weirdest little songs living in the alley. With this heat, everybody's got their windows open, and the fragrant tendrils of sweet country music waft out into the night and accost your unprotected eardrums. Right now I'm hearing some kind of a twangy ho-down emanating from about three stories up. Probably high time I show my appreciation - Oy! Oy! Toin it down, duh radio! That's better. (At least I feel better about it - the freaking music is still there...)


Yes, well... if you guessed that the alien-mayor Gizmandiar has succeeded thus far in keeping us out of our adopted home (squat house) the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, then you are indeed correct. Matt, John, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), Mitch Macaphee (Marvin's personal inventor), Trevor James Constable (keeper of the patented orgone generating device, as seen on T.V.), the man-sized tuber (no parenthetical comment can do him justice), Big Zamboola (former planet), Lincoln (our famous president), and anti-Lincoln (his evil twin) have all been released into the wild, there to do what nature commands. In my case, that's sleeping in this alley. 'Cause that's the kind of fella that I am. (I'm biding my time....)


Others in our party - let's face it - are more ambitious than me and the man-sized tuber (who's in the next alley over). Mitch Macaphee is, after all, a man of relative means; a veritable Tarzan of mad science, swinging by vine from international conference to research fellowship to faculty posting. Right now he's off to Madagascar on some kind of government research initiative (reinventing Lysol, I believe is what he said). In any case, Mitch has options. So has Trevor James, who spent a week in solidarity with us before lighting off to his ranch in California where comfort and plenty await. (Who can blame him, right? I said, am I right?? Is this bloody thing on?)


My apologies. You get cranky out in the alley - I'm sure I don't have to explain. Anyway - that leaves us with Marvin, the two Lincolns, Big Zamboola, and of course, the tuber... none of whom has anywhere better to go (trust me on this). And as you know, Marvin has little choice, since he is an automated servo mechanism programmed to respond to my voice commands, however imperfectly. I have instructed him to negotiate our return to the Mill and, if necessary, to raise the money for any fines levied against our account. So far no progress - in fact, he's been sputtering and clanging in the same spot since I issued that command about a week ago. (Personally, I doubt he's even started the assignment....) Bloody servo mechanisms! When do I get a proper robot? And where's my jet pack!


Yes, Marvin may be malfunctioning. And his repair man is - wait for it - Mitch Macaphee, now a temporary resident of distant Madagascar. Crikey - don't tell me I'll have to send the Lincolns to do our negotiating! Last time they agreed on something, the Confederacy fired on Fort Sumter. (Not the diplomatic type...)

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