This is home?

No, Mitch. That's not the point, man. Wait a minute, wait a minute.... I think somebody may be reading what I'm typing into my stupid blog. Hold on... Yeah, I posted it. Sorry, Mitch - I'll call you back. Bye.


Hi, everybody... it's your old pal Bozo. Did I say Bozo? I meant Joe. Beg your pardon, I'm all farmisht. Just spent the last half-hour on the phone to Mitch Macaphee, inventor of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has taken up residence in a relatively comfy treehouse outside of Buenos Aires for the summer. (Just to be clear, Mitch is in the treehouse, not Marvin. Marvin is the one who fell out of a tree.) I hate to treat so distinguished a mad scientist as some kind of cheap tech support, but damn it, we're desperate... desperate, I tell you! (Phew!) No, no... not life or death. Marvin's on the fritz, that's all, and it's proving to be a bit of an inconvenience.


It happened just after we crashed back home last week. As you know, Big Green had taken a little trip out to Cancri 55 for a showcase gig that ended up lasting two freaking months. Long story short, we had a bit of a rough landing on our return (right into my m.f. bedroom) and in the process, Marvin seems to have shaken some key piece of electronic brainology loose. What's the problem? Haven't a clue. That's why we dialed up the man who put him together... this in hopes of getting a step-by-step method for setting the tin man straight. Of course, Mitch being the typical mad scientist that he is (he's living in a fucking tree, for christ's sake!) has proven incapable of giving a coherent answer one way or the other. Three calls, and the best I could get out of him was a recipe for gazpacho. (Actually, it's a pretty good recipe. But I digress...)


What is Marvin doing that's so annoying? Well... first he donned some nautical headgear left behind by that mad man Admiral Gonutz. Then he installed himself on the rusting freight elevator and insisted that everyone call him "Admiral". Admittedly, that was only mildly annoying. After a couple of days of that, he took it into his robotic skull to start swinging around on the rafters in hammer assembly room five. Now, Marvin was never much of an athlete, so this was actually a bit dangerous, as all 267 pounds of him (yes... he's made of metal, friends) would come crashing down onto the work floor every ten minutes or so. What the hell - we thought that was pretty bad. But we hadn't seen anything yet. Nope. Nothing. (Is this thing still on? Oh, right.)


Here's the capper - one night last week, Marvin broke into my wall safe (unlocked, as it happens), took our squatter's contract to the Cheney Hammer Mill, and sold it to Loathsome Prick Records, our label. Now they own our sorry asses, lock, stock and barrel. So Mitch... if you're reading this... love the gazpacho, but... how do you fix this s.o.b.??

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