Tubotosis.

Here, boy. Heeere, boy! That's a good boy.... come on, got a little treat for you. Over here, boy. That's right. Over.... oh, goddamn it!


Oh, hi, friends. (And I mean friends in the Facebook / MySpace sense.... in other words, total strangers.) Caught me at a bad time, actually. No, I'm not trying to coax a stray dog out from under the tool shed. It's the man-sized tuber.... he's gone all reclusive on us. I think it's a "back to nature" kick of some kind. Here tubey's been as mobile as a biped these last seven years, and he seemed quite content, really... especially since we procured that ergonomically designed go-cart for him some time back. Of course, appearances can be deceiving, and apparently (or non-apparently) our man-sized tuber has been harboring some regrets over his life with the humanoids. Pining for the fields of home, it seems. He misses his fellow tubers, and who can blame him? (They make such good companions...)


Anyway, he took his little tuber scooter out into the courtyard one morning this week and made for the front gate, getting as far as the local green grocer's shop before we caught up with him. (Good thing he didn't break down in front of the vegetable stands - he might have ended up the catch of the day for some hungry vegan.) Between the four of us (Matt, John, anti-Lincoln, and myself), we wheeled the tuber back into the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill and locked the gate behind us. No more escapes, we thought. Of course, we didn't anticipate the option for internal exile... our tool shed has a door that locks from the inside, strangely enough, and the man-sized tuber took refuge inside, throwing the latch behind him. Why? Could be the dirt floor reminds him of mother. (I'm guessing. It's probably a lot more complicated than that.)


Why didn't we see this coming? Well, we've been taken up with the serial problems of Marvin (my personal robot assistant), who has been having his own personality issues, as you may recall. (There was that little tweak he had over the Canadian space robot whose name must not be spoken. Please... don't say it!) And of course, the return of mad scientist Mitch Macaphee and his notorious ticking steamer trunk. (Turned out to be a forgotten alarm clock he'd borrowed from the Buenos Aires Hilton. Again... keep this to yourself.) So what the hell, we've been losing a few pounds a week in pure sweat over here - a little too preoccupied to notice the subtle mood swings of an overgrown sweet potato. My apologies, for chrissake. Next time I will have my litmus paper ready, just in case he gets a little less acidic than normal. (The tuber's dropping acid again.... not good.)


So, yep.... a bad case of tubotosis here at the mill. Last week it was ticking bomb-a-tosis. Before that, robot-pain-in-the-ass-atosis. What's next? CD release-atosis, I hope.

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