I have too much free time on my hands with this pseudo-vacation. I now understand the term "stir crazy".

If I have to wrack my brains for one more thing to do this week to entertain myself, I'm going to grab an icepick and start chipping away at some random passerby's head.

For some reason, I've read Terry Pratchett all this week. This is also not a good thing for my sanity when it is already threatened by too much free time.

I'm getting visions of Discworld, talking tortoises, Music with Rocks In and wizards coated in coffee foam bubbles.





Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to walk three dogs (count 'em - three). If I don't come back, they went insane and dragged me under a three ton semi while chasing after A.) an innocent bystander, B.) a harmless bunny rabbit, or C.) a police officer - because Fate would like it very much to cause me ever more trouble, have me arrested, and summarily beaten to a pumpkin innards resembling pulp.



If you don't hear from me in a week, you are more than welcome to vote about which one did me in - A, B, or C. If possible, I'll try and return from the afterlife to answer your question. If not, I'm sure it'll be on the news...

"This is CNN. Tonight's headline: Girl gets squashed by a runaway tractor trailer after being dragged three hundred feet behind a train of rabid dogs. What set them off? What does the family say? More at 11."

Cue ridiculous and nonsensical commercial.

"We're back now with one of the witnesses. Ma'am, what exactly, in your own words, happened?"

"Am I on T.V.?"

"Yes, you are. Now, what did you see?"

"Is it live?"

[She starts to preen, pucker her lips and peek around at the camera man]

"Yes, live. Now, if you could just -"

"Hi, Mom! I'm on T.V.!"

[Lots of bubbly jumping up and down]

"Yes, um, as I was asking...if you could just -"

[Twirls hair, smacks bubblegum]

"Er, right. Back to you, Bob, for the weather."

[In the background I shall be rising from the asphalt - a newly decomposing undead - whereupon I shall wreck my vengeance on everyone within a two mile radius. Or, at least, I would except (with my luck) the tractor trailer wasn't put properly in park. Several seconds after stumbling to my feet, it would run over me again and no one, not even the camera man, would be the wiser. I wouldn't even get a little scream for my troubles. Damn it.]

And that, folks, would be my thirty seconds of fame. Where's my close up?

This will be the first and only time (hopefully) that I post anything remotely political on my blog. Please don't chase me with pitchforks, if threatened and cornered I will react with rabid squirrel-like force.

Squeak!

And, to the tune of the funeral march, I present you with the following link (originally provided by Seven of Seven is What?).

"By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."

Bush Moves Toward Marshal Law

As we have all predicted - the reign of stupidity will probably be less and less likely to end.

I've concluded that, for some people, dating is like hunting unsuspecting prey. They lay in wait, silent, unmoving until someone strays from the herd and, when they least suspect it, ATTACK! Whereupon they feast heartily on the poor victim's living flesh and leave the dessicated remains to the vultures and beetles.

Not this time, buddy! I plan on decomposing with dignity!



...



...Sigh...

On to more bright news (drum roll, please):

I'm off work for a week. [Hurrays and limpid flag waving commences] I was originally going on a trip out of state, but due to various reasons and unforeseen circumstances (refer to above paragraph), I'll be at home.

So! I am taking this trip money and buying myself that flat panel monitor I've been yearning for and upgrading my pathetic excuse for a video card.

Radeon! [screamed in the manner of Kirk's 'KHAN!']

That card is atrocious, an affront to my gaming sensibilities. In short, it's the oldest piece of hardware on the computer and some things don't age well - like Goldie Hawn.



"People who are rather more than six feet tall and nearly as broad across the shoulders often have uneventful journeys. People jump out at them from behind rocks then say things like, "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were someone else." Terry Pratchett

For the past two days, the light above my cell (ahem, cubicle, pardon me) has been broken. My little corner is plunged into darkness. The only light comes from the ambient glow of my monitor. I feel like Batman.

Except I'm wearing pants.

This little hole of darkness keeps attracting everyone in the office to inspect it. They all say the same thing. "What are you hiding in there?"

Deadpan stares do nothing to dissuade them from asking this inane question. I'm going to resort, instead, to randomly saying the following phrases:

"All of the weapons with which to take over the world." Whereupon I will hum the melodious intro to Pinky and the Brain. (Why did they cancel that show? *sobs*)

"Can't sleep. Clowns will eat me. In big red balloons with straws." Does anyone else ever remember watching Killer Clowns from Outerspace?

"Papa San and Bat Rooster fighting to the death! Quick, the odds are 10 to 1! Place your bets!"

Ah, Papa San. My poor mechanized little kung fu hamster of doom has been doing rather poorly as of late. Back to the gym, San! "Practice, practice!" (said in that nasally high pitched, wheedling voice that all satan worshipping piano teachers have).

I also beg to have the following question answered - why was the toilet seat left up in the women's bathroom? I have become rather trusting and complacent in the knowledge that women do not need to have the seat up for any biological reason. So, of course, I nearly took a blue tinted early morning dip (ah, so refreshing) this morning.



In the immortal words of Gregory Maguire...

"If you're ever in doubt, throw a pepper in the air. If it fails to come down, you have gone mad, so don't trust in anything."

One of my coworkers has managed to find a twelve inch tall fake rooster, complete with real feathers glued on and a suspiciously real looking beak. He proceeded to slap a bat mask on it's head, securing it in place with an amalgam of scotch tape, thumb tacks and rubber bands. It is now, proudly, on display on his filing cabinet with a sign that reads "Indian Bat Rooster".



He is so inordinately pleased with his work that his appearance reminds me of a cat in a bowl of butter - before the shoe is thrown at him.

There is this little voice inside of me (somewhat squeaky and reminiscent of Vincent Price in The Fly, 1958. "Help me, please, help me!") that, instead of pleading for help, begs me to do wicked things - namely, to take that rooster and shove it, beak first, into the gargantuan paper shredder at the end of the hall while laughing raucously with a hand raised to the ceiling, fingers clawlike, neurotically pleased at my sophomoric victory.

Damn, I knew I was drinking too much coffee.

"You have to leave now, and never come back here. Have you ever heard of insect politics? Neither have I. Insects... don't have politics. They're very... brutal. No compassion, no compromise. We can't trust the insect. I'd like to become the first... insect politician. Y'see, I'd like to, but... I'm afraid, uh..."The Fly, 1986