Strange new world.

Got your bearings straight? Well, then, where the hell are we? What's that? The Bering Strait? How the hell did we... oh, right. You're just repeating the last two words of every sentence that comes out of my mouth. How helpful. Stop it!

Yes, friends... that's right. We still haven't found our way back to the Cheney Hammer Mill, which we now presume is no longer under the control of the dreaded space alien Gizmandiar since his ignominious defeat at the pseudo-pods of the equally dreaded (though beloved by us) space alien sFshzenKlyrn . (Long story, actually. If you've missed the last few installments, click that Usual Rubbish link and scroll down a bit.) Anyway, we spent several salty days at sea following our splashdown in the Atlantic (or was it the Pacific... because the Atlantic isn't so terrific, though the Pacific, I hear, is not all it's cracked up to be...) before Marvin (my personal robot assistant) caught sight of land. It was the first we'd actually heard so much as a squeak from Marvin since his collision with the alien drink dispenser last week, and though his exclamation was a bit of a non-sequitur, it was clear that he had seen our journey's end up ahead.

Now, those of you who have been following the exploits of Big Green over the past few months (rudderless wretches though you may be) know that we spent a fair amount of time on a remote, uncharted island just recently. Needless to say, none of us was looking forward to this landfall - I can still feel those underripe plantains scraping my palate on the way down.... uuuhhhlllllggghh... Anyway, the strange, unknown island loomed before us, filling even the hardiest amongst us with dread. It was a dark and foreboding place, seemingly lifeless, with massive palisades of sheer rock reaching to the heavens like a confinement wall around a prison. Matt ordered the man-sized tuber to row a little harder so we could get a closer look. (Tubey isn't good at a lot of things, but rowing he knows.) I think the root vegetable may have misunderstood Matt's instructions somewhat, since he propelled us right up onto dry land without so much as a by your leave. (Can't get good galley help these days...)

We got out and took a look around. Was this an island? Marvin said yes, but again, he still seemed a bit addled. So we worked our way northward through the deep canyons until, exhausted from the trials of the previous few days, we stopped to rest and collect our thoughts. Marvin did a little self lubrication, while Matt, John, and I ordered a half-carafe of merlot and a basket of bruschetta to bolster us for the long and arduous journey up Fifth Avenue towards terra incognita. Anticipating our plans (which we had largely kept to ourselves), the Lincolns (posi and anti) had hailed a cab while we were enjoying our provisions and sped off towards god only knows where. How many times do I have to tell these guys? This isn't the 19th century anymore! All of the places they knew are now something else entirely. (I can picture poor anti-Lincoln scratching his fool head over the shoe factory they built on remains of his family home.)

Anyway, it's northward bound for us, in hopes of finding a clue as to how to get back home. I'm thinking, though, we should at least try to take credit for discovering this previously unknown island, with its awful beauty and its overpriced luncheon options. How about Greenland? Taken? Then Greensfield. Greensboro. Keep thinking... we've got all night.