90210 Doesn't Hold Up Against 1856

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Blister Pack of Lies

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"Look," says Nurse Garrison, lowering her clipboard and sighing audibly. "I'm going to have to tell the insurance company something."

"Tell them it's Cobe's fault," I reply simply.

She picks up her pen, and pushed her glasses back over her nose. "Who is Cobe?"

"He's a guy that I sent to straighten out all our operations in Antarctica last year."

"So this is his fault how?"

"Well, he's still in charge of the scheduling and catering of the Company Picnic." I tear up as I stare at the wool mittens over my hands. "He did this on purpose. What kind of sicko schedules a company picnic in November?"

"But it's a clear day, and 72 degrees outside," says Garrison. "I think the guy made some pretty good choices all things considered."

"That's exactly what Cobe would want you to think," I illustrate. "But he scheduled the date and the caterer both."

"So?"

"The caterer came with a clear agenda," I says. "He sets up and starts grilling chicken. I simply asked him from time to time if it was done yet."

Nurse Garrison moaned dubiously. "How many times did you ask him?"

"Thirty four," I says. "Finally he says Sure buddy. It's done now. Knock yourself out. He never tells me that the stuff on the grill is like searing hot."

"So he caused 3rd degree burns on your hands, " she scrawls. "Were you around when he made the potato salad?"

"Yes," I confess. "Why?"

"We'll have to check you for tapeworms too." She pauses. "Colonoscopy?"

"Three weeks ago," I reply, sullen.

"Well you're due," she says, checking a box. "At your age, you can't be too careful. Now why are you wearing those cheap wool mittens?"

"They were Ethan's idea," I says, inspecting them wincing. "But I sterilized my hands in boiling hydrochloric acid first like he told me."

"Ethan told you to sterilize your hands before going to the hospital by boiling them in hydrochloric acid while wearing wool mittens?"

"This happened at last year's picnic. He figured with an HMO, getting my leg pulled would cost essentially the same."

Tearing a bloody strip cautiously from the mitten she remarks, "Is that salted Brillo?"

"Yes. But this year I remembered not to try to grab French fries out of the grease," I proclaim. "I hate that smell."

Internet Swag

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Freeloading Moocher Invades Predator Press

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"Hey, 'Geneva Convention' my ass."

The Hunt for Red November

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Doc Mike and I finish watching Duane "Dog" Chapman on Larry King Live, and come to separate conclusions.

Doc clicks off the widescreen. "You know what would have been funnier?"

"Funnier than this guy listening to an authentic recording of himself being a racist asshole, and blaming the National Enquirer?" I says. "Not really."

"Well, this guy is a bounty hunter, right? And bounty hunters are supposed to be tough. But this guy is crying on television? He shoulda rolled with it. Shaved his head. Got some swastika tattoos. Offered a half-price special apprehending black men while spitting foam all over the place."

"Yeah," I concede, cracking open another Blue Beaver Beer. "And then Oprah paratroops in -Mission Impossible style- rips off one of Larry's legs an beats the shit out of everyone with it."

"And how about that kid that sold the tape to a tabloid?" Doc continues. "I mean that family must be a total mess."

"I'll bet Thanksgiving dinner at that house is nothing short of spectacular. The kid walks in, 'Hi dad, I want you to meet my new girlfriend ...' Then the needle screeches accross the Perry Como record, and is followed by this big long awkward silence."

Doc muses for a moment. "Can't you just picture Dog carving the turkey with the gravy boat stickin out of his back?"

"That would certainly sell a lot of Tide and Shout commercials," I agree. "It's like a violent version of 'Dancin With the Stars', with 10% more white trash." I grab my laptop and boot up. "We should get Trew Life to narrate it. The ratings will be stellar."

"And right at the end," says Doc, creative juices flaring, "Al Sharpton comes in, pours the cranberries off of the hubcap they're using as a serving dish, and decapitates everyone with a single mighty throw."

"And carrying Duane's head by the mullet," I says drafting furiously, scrawling HTML like a machine gun, "he gets away by stealing the El Camino in the yard? I'm way ahead of you."

China Answers Demand for Lead-Free Toys

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You have to love an entire country that makes Predator Press "Quality Control" look methodical and comprehensive.

-And now there's a potential spokesperson deal for R. Kelly!

Wits End

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I hate the inconsiderate and ungodly hours Predator Press tends to hold meetings.

I've never been to a single meeting conducted before noon that yielded anything practical whatsoever.

Almost by instict, I've avoided them entirely. I regard groups of disagreeing people highly efficient mistake-making machines, second only to ones that concur. And never fail, some jerk is always yelling at me, "But we told you about the blah blah blah at the last meeting!"

Frankly, I'm just plain tired of people that operate under the assumption that I'm paying attention.

I hold meetings strictly between midnight and 2am. If you're going to disagree with me, you better be damn well committed, and fully prepared to face the full fury of your "significant other" who has to pick you up after being dumped at some nondescript Dunkin Donuts 800 miles away.

For smart cats, the quickest way to the mouse is the cheese.