Cruciferous mayor.

What is this - another citation? Third one today. What? You mean there's a stack of them downstairs as well? Jesus H. Jumping Christ! What kind of a squat house is this, anyway?

Yes, friends, we're back home in Indiana... I mean, in upstate New York again. Back at the fabled and storied (actually, three stories, plus the roof and basement) Cheney Hammer Mill. We arrived on the redeye late last night... and by "redeye" I don't mean an overnight flight from Andrews Airforce Base; rather, an eye-popping super-light speed journey through the outer solar system with a drunken mad scientist at the controls, half-empty quart of redeye clutched in his left paw. Weaving? Yes, we had that. Sudden drops in altitude? Most def. And what about those dramatic gravitational variances? Well, we endured our share, clinging to the exposed plumbing of the upper deck (some of which emitted an eerie green glow - uuuuhhhllll), rolling with the turbulence as our inebriated navigator snaked his way between the planets like celestial highway cones. There were a couple of exciting moments - Mitch Macaphee had missed the memo about that new Saturnian ring, and we plowed right through the sucker with inches to spare - but even with one eye closed (and one brain neutralized), we managed to hit our earthly target.

Well, hell... we were on the ground no more than twenty minutes before some local officials came rapping on the Hammer Mill doors. (I had barely gotten my pressure suit off, a cumbersome outfit that, I'm convinced, was a converted diving get-up.) Walking more than a bit like gill man, I pulled open the front door and let the uniformed individuals in. They were looking for the man-sized tuber, they told me, and would only say why directly to the tuber himself. When he wheeled himself into the room, one of our visitors hung a ceremonial ribbon around his... well... neck, I guess you could call it. "Congratulations, Mr. Mayor," said the woman to the tuber, "and welcome home." And I was like... and tubey was like... and Mitch was like... what the fuck, we were ALL like something I obviously can't describe, but which approximates surprise and flabbergastedness. (At least not using words. Gestures, perhaps.)

So, while we were out (and by "out", I mean the "outer space" kind of "out"), the good people of our community saw fit to elect the man-sized tuber mayor. I suppose it's only fitting. Folks just north of here almost elected the intellectual equivalent of a box of rocks as their congressman. And what the hell, this seemed like it could redound significantly to our benefit, know what I mean? After all, we are just SQUATTERS here, no defined rights at least in the local codebook (except the right to be taken to jail). Now that he's mayor, tubey can keep the heat off of us. He can, I don't know, appoint Marvin (my personal robot assistant) as Public Safety Commissioner and Mitch Macaphee as his, I don't know, budget director. I'm just thinking out loud here. Well, that sounded all well and good, and as they led the new mayor off to his cush mansion in the middle of town, we all sat back and waited for those benefits to start rolling in the front door like over-ripe oranges, fresh-plucked from the plush fronds of the juiciest tree in town. Mmmmm, boy - solid privilege!

Don't need to tell you that we were being a tad over-optimistic. Those sweet benefits arrived in the form of eviction notices. Apparently the man-sized tuber is pulling a Giuliani on our little town. BLOODY VOTERS!