Dry spell.
Okay, boys - let's dig a bit deeper. Matt, it's your turn with the post-holer. Marvin (my personal robot assistant), you've got the pick axe this time. I'll occupy myself with this dime novel. (KLANG!) Oowwww!!! Dissent in the ranks. Happens every time you try to get some work out of this crew. Though telling Matt to dig is kind of like bossing your boss around. (He euphemistically directed me to engage in autosex with myself. I, of course, refused.) Still, you would think Marvin, at least, would do what I ask, and yet he's worse than most of the others, tossing his tools into the drainage ditch, muttering to himself in that robotian way of his. He's still surly over the space robot Dextre thing - another obsession that, thus far, Mitch Macaphee has been unable to program out of the poor boy. For his own part (and don't ask which part I'm referring to), Mitch has been keeping far away from the work zone as well. Not that I would expect him to use those m...