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Well, that's one way to lose all those unsightly extra holiday pounds. I didn't just watch my weight, I heard, felt, smelled and tasted, as my contents evacuated by the most convenient egress available. Yeah, "ewww" is right. Let's not do that again, m'kay? Thnx much.
Then this past weekend, hopped in the Blue Bomb and zipped down to P-Town for a long weekend of partying. Saturday morning, I woke with a scattering what looked like insect bites. That's it! I cursed, No more letting those mangy mutts sleep in my bed! As the day progressed though, it appeared more that a swarm of cantankerous yellowjackets had gotten into my linens, and furthermore had hitched a ride in my clothes. Oh my. Powered through a birthday party Saturday night. Ginnie went totally out of control, two-fisting cake like there was no tomorrow; you'd think ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2) ameigh and Dinosaur Neale starved her, or something. Tried and failed to get one of those "an [insert-animal-here] says..." doohickeys to play in reverse, or at least play something more danceable than Old MacDonald for me and those cuh-razy Robinson grrls. Toward the end of the evening, tried to skateboard on a xylophone -- with mixed results, musical and otherwise. Most of Sunday sucked hardcore. By evening, had bounced back enough to call on paulscat, in part hoping some of her witch-fu could help what ailed me. No dice on the latter, but she did have a full drum set sitting out in the open, which I put to good use. Felling better now, though I've still got some bruising around my eyes. My standard response when asked about this: if you think this looks bad, you should see the other kid.
Started working toward my ultimate goal of full-sleeve tattoos. While there is still no other artwork to give it away, I figured I'd go a few double-takes, either horrified or amused: help me, help me, deadly creepy-crawlies, clinging to my arms! Haw haw. These preceded the aforementioned welts, the benefit of the latter being that they contributed nicely to the illusion. Per a number of people, however, I'm taking the "try before you buy" approach, which although slightly cheesy, is more likely to save me from decades of embarrassment from designs that failed to live up to expectations. I haven't totally made up my mind, but this much is for certain: absolutely no unicorns! If I get anything on my arse though, I can already tell you now what it'll be. Speaking of which, it dawned on me that Tigger is, like, totally the Bizarro version of Tony the Tiger. That's so weird.Current Mood:  like a voodoo doll |
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This year I resolve to update this darned thing. And this being the start of another spin around the armillary sphere, now seemed like a good time to institute a proper multi-tiered datestamp system. A flat scheme is concise and impossible to misunderstand, but it gets tiresome performing higher-order gazinta calculations in my head, especially against the Gregorian calendar. Bonus is that you, my adoring and cow-towed public have a constant reminder of when to shower me with prezzies. (hint hint)
Speaking of which, had occasion to take part in a very strange supernatural spectacle during the past month. I thought Halloween was supposed to be the night when the the devil's minions roam the streets, but apparently this is not quite accurate, as it seems to instead be a festival centered around a costume party and the running of the dinosaurs. To the undiscerning and to overwrought Creationists, such a misconception is perhaps understandable. But anyway, barely two months later, at the pointy tail-end of the year, evil waxes shiny until at last Satan himself pulls an all-nighter.
Quite an affair this is. My guess is that Old Nick has a quota of souls to collect every year, and this is his playing catch-up. It's a scalability problem, plain and simple. I expect the quota is tacked to population, which if you've seen the growth curves for humanity, means the archfiend in having to stretch himself thin. Which probably explains why, as I understand it, the rush starts earlier and gets more insane every year. But you have to give serious props, the devil pulls out his whole bag of tricks and then some for the occasion.
For one thing, he seems to be freaking everywhere at once. On the walls, on people's lawns, on street corners. And you can see it in their eyes: the people are terrified. For instance, one day we went to an altar set up in the heart of the consumer district. People waiting in line an hour (apparently this was light) to proceed up to his thrown, where frantic parents set their children upon his lap for the sacrifice. It's somewhat anti-climactic though, not at all the gruesome affair you'd expect: He just sits there, trying to keep up a personable front, while his super-hawt assistant uses a camera. That's it. Then you sign your name, pay for the honor, and you walk out. I guess that contrary to canon, souls do regenerate, because this unholy ritual is repeated every year.
There's a lot more to it than the above, but since it's an annual event, no need to cover it all right now. For instance, the Anti Clause and his Mean Green Machine, who gave me a cheery honk of his horn and a wave of his hand this morning as I was heading out the door. There was a giant battle night before last -- sounded like effin' World War III out there -- and I guess he came out on top, since all the Satanic altars are now being dismantled.
God bless us, every one! Can't wait to do this again. |
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Sunday trip to the park came with an extra-special treat: hot girl-on-girl street-fighting action! This yuppie bitch totally cleaned up on a cyclist chick right between the swingset and the sandpit. Both had simply appalling fashion sense. There was a crowd of onlookers traveling alongside the fight, too, including one guy with a camera. Near as I can figure, it was part of this new trend of Fight Club posers, who videotape their misadventures, edit the footage on their iMacs at home, then post it online to look kewl. To be honest, it didn't really look to me like any of those punches were even connecting. Lame, I know. Common sense dictates that you make use of the weapons immediately at hand. Had it been me, I would have blinded my opponent with a handful of sand, then nailed her with the rusty dump truck. The chain from one of the swings also could probably be put to good use for distance striking. It really is a wonder that children are allowed to roam freely in such a "playground". Come to think of it, the way the area is walled off and surrounded by sloped higher ground, it somewhat resembles a coliseum for gladiators.
The afternoon of the Fourth, it was OMGWTFBBQ in full effect. Alas, I couldn't quite manage to get my climbing structure repositioned so the emergency slide emptied into the pool -- that would have been totally rad. Everything else was cool though, with only a few exceptions. One pair of partygoers, who massively polluted the pool, then proceeded to trash my bedroom. Jeezus, last time those losers get an invite. And this other girl with spooky Village of the Damned looks had a little too much to drink and gave us all a scare by taking a tumble down the steps on her way out. Luckily she rolled with it and escaped with only a few bruises. I was so spun-up from the festivities (and maybe MSG in the bratwurst) that it took hours for me to finally go to sleep.
Back to SEAL training today, after several weeks off due to illness. Call me a sissy, but I have enough trouble not freezing my tush off in that water. Would it be too much to ask for us to be shipped somewhere warmer for this? Oh! Oh! And that remind me: Anna-Marie is back for another visit from the Saudi Arabia. She's the best! Making plans for a trip there sometime next year, and looking forward to bellydancing lessons and flirting with the native hotties. Gotta make sure my cell phone still works over there though. Hey, Omar, can you hear me now?Current Music: Mother Love Bone - Lady Godiva Blues |
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It's funny to watch the whole spectacle of Republicans trying to slash federal subsidies for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting. The argument that these subsidies represent a small portion of CPB's budget nowadays, thanks to the largess of private and corporate donors, is technically accurate. But never mind that. What idiot politician wants to be pinned with knee-capping beloved children's' icons? Standard operating procedure clearly outlines how to execute this properly: After you carpet-bomb the mud-hut village, you must immediately afterward drop yellow packets containing emergency rations, soccer balls and tiny American flags for the surviving orphans. It's not a matter of humanitarianism, just keeping the media from crucifying you.
Note this is all going down the same year that it was pre-announced Cookie Monster would be going on a diet. Coincidence? Shyeah, right. It's not even like Sesame Street is unassailable, but you have to be smart about it. Those Muppets may not be the sharpest tools in the shed, but they are legion, so attacking them en masse is a dicey proposition. The trick is to find the chink in their armor. Obviously, Elmo is way overexposed and the most vulnerable. Everybody secretly hates that nasally little bastard at this point. When the others try to retaliate, label them as terrorists and introduce a new child-oriented alert system to protect the public against this festering menace among us. ( For example... )
At this point you're probably asking: Geez, what's her beef with Sesame Street? Well, a few weeks ago I was watching some decades-old episodes on DVD, and who should they trot out to sing a song, but fricking Ralph Nader, the man who eats children! If you're not part of the solution, then you're part of the problem. And giving that fraud access to a nation of gullible minds is definitely not part of the solution. In fact, it's antithetical to the goals of both educational programming and public broadcasting to let any established political or media figure make a friendly appearance. There are six billion plus people in the world, find someone who hasn't been in the news.
Speaking of things that devour and undo influence by nutty right-wingers on education, I've got to say that the giant flying spaghetti monster is by far one of the most compelling theories I've encountered lately. Sure, go ahead and put your life in jeopardy by scoffing at his noodly appendages, if that's your inclination. But know this: No one has ever successfully combatted fervent belief in the existence of a higher being by arguing that instead there is simply... nothing. (Can you say "Snuffalufagus", boys and girls?) That's a loser's game, because nature abhors a vacuum, and the same holds true for human nature. We're hardwired to impose a sense of order on the chaos around us, even if it means pulling an explanation from our collective bumhole. Intelligent design is a slyly modern maneuver, oriented toward undermining critical thinking. When there's a snake in the tree of knowledge, don't pussy out and give him time to peddle his wormy apples. Instead, kick it Conan-style old-skool and represent: Crom can kick your god's arse, and don't you forget it!
Speaking of "we have come, we have seen, we have kicked its ass": You know that scene in Ghostbusters where Slimer pops out of a hot dog cart with his mouth crammed full? I decided to recreate it faithfully at the dinner table with a jar of vienna sausages. Good times.Current Mood: chillin' in my Muppet-hide yurt Current Music: Garbage - Temptation Waits |
| » Day 524: The People's Republic of Busytown |
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Holy hell, over a year since my last post! That's no good. The government training program for girlie assassins has curtailed Net access after several embarrassing reports in the media of shady intelligence ops. The grossest part by far has developing an immunity to every disease on the face of the planet, and a few more that were cooked up in an underground lab from alien DNA. Useful side effect of the latter: I am now capable to producing vast quantities of saliva, capable of eating through... well, not much at present, but I remain hopeful. The most difficult part has been the bipedal dexterity training. The final test for that one is successfully fending off an attack by a gang of thugs in the "spinning circle of death" apparatus. Believe you me, it's a lot harder than simply putting one foot in front of the other. On the other hand, vertical scaling has gone much smoother. Foreign language studies has been slow going, probably because I keep inciting one instructor to profanity, while the other I'm convinced is just babbling incoherently.
In my free time, I've been working on my dance moves, though none of the other enlistees has an ounce of soul, except for this one old guy -- and bless him for trying so hard, but he really can't dance worth crap. The base library is somewhat lacking unfortunately. It's largely retreads of simple-minded propaganda, and I've read just about everything on the shelves about a hundred times. My favorite piece though is this retro communist anthology, by an author using a ridiculously transparent derivative of "Red Scare" as his nom de plume. I'm still trying to figure out the symbolism of its ubiquitous earthworm insertions. That's some crazy shit that guy spouts, but the illustrations are a hoot.
No time for love, Dr. Jones!
Jun. 27th, 2005 @ 01:08 am
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| » Day 123: Usul no longer needs the weirding module |
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Training exercises last weekend with in the Sand Lake Deadzone involved a full schedule, so during a spare moment I jotted down some notes in my hardcopy journal for posting on here later, so that I wouldn't forget a single action-packed detail. Well, let me tell you, that shit was a good idea, because after some spice-induced fever-dreams last night, my memories were all discombobulated. On the plus side, I apparently have developed the ability to verbally shatter solid objects via carefully directed utterance of the word "DAH!" This will no doubt come in handy at some point. Anyway, here's the blurry version of my trip.
On the way down, we stopped in Vancouver for lunch at a hacienda with paulscat, which was fun. Except that in the course of explaining her attempts to bend her recalcitrant stepsons to her will, I think she accidentally put a spell on the Old Man, because shortly after leaving, he got us totally lost in Portland after almost driving us off a bridge. One more reason not to let that dopey primate operate heavy machinery. My fault for not doing a mystical pre-flight check, however, since it was well established the evil priestess under whom Brenda is serving is a destabilizing influence, which is kinda dangerous since the poor cutie is already pretty hair-trigger with her wand. Also, note to self: Fire my navigator.
The Deadzone itself lies just inland from the northern Oregon coast, southwest of Tillamook. In the middle of an otherwise verdant locale is an area of maybe a couple square miles inexplicably devoid of anything except barren dunes and the occasional forlorn bit of scrub brush. A local recounted there was once an oasis in the middle, but even that has since been consumed by the choking sands. Adjacent is a seemingly lifeless grove known as the Monkey Forest, because the gnarled branches have a nasty tendency to grab at interlopers, especially when their pants are down. Theories abound as to the origins of these anomalies -- deposition by local wind patterns, military defoliant testing, cursed Indian burial ground. But it's pretty clear to me that the desert portion is an aerial marker for alien travelers, "Hey y0, yummy cows are thatta way!" Yes, with its plentiful population of dairy cattle, neighboring Tillamook is the perfect location for a xeno-bubba truck stop. As for the forest, some sediment testing would be necessary to confirm, but I'll wager that's where the intergalactic RVs are dumping out their excrement tanks when they pass through. In other words, don't drink the water.
Though our barracks were just a bit up the road, most of our time was spent on reconnaissance expeditions up and down the coast. Motorist must be cautious, according to the waitress at the Whiskey Creek Cafe, because bicycle-riding elk are a big problem in the area. Cautious perhaps, but she didn't say anything about sober, so I ordered a double-shot of whiskey, figuring it was the house specialty. Unfortunately, revenuers apparently shut down their still, so the best they can offer is an assortment of homemade pies and insanely large coffee cups. On our way south the next morning, some dumbass bumpkin cow was standing in the middle of the road trying to flag down a ride to the "big city". I didn't want to be the one to break it to him, but Pacific City, the only outpost in that direction, is anything but big. Luckily, a friendly leather-daddy pig on a chopper pulled ahead and intimidated the cow into moving his big butt long enough for us to proceed. En route through town, we noticed the elk were setting up a drag strip.
We debarked at the air strip and I split off from the group in my mobile suit to head back north along the beach to where the festivities were taking place. I tried to make conversation with a surfer chick we passed, but her obnoxious boyfriend kicked sand in my face and dragged her into the water, where I couldn't follow because I forgot to pack my mobile suit's waders. Where is Charles Atlas when you need him? Continuing on, eventually reached Cape Kiwanda and neighboring Haystack Rock. Clambering around on the former was awesome, with spray occasionally bursting into the air a few feet away as waves broke on the rocks. Found an abandoned al-Qaeda cave, but its weapon cache had already been emptied, though it must have been recently, because patrol boats were pulling ashore as we headed back. After rejoining the rest of the group, we noticed the Old Man smelled all flowery, which for a soldier on R&R can mean only one thing, so I gave him a good tongue-lashing, because that's just not okay behavior in front of the lady troops.
Ran out of time on the trip for the two things I was really hoping for: Munson Falls and the nearby supposedly mothballed Air Museum. Who puts a giant hangar in the middle of a cow field and gathers this much equipment there, I kept asking myself? Then I discovered a mention in the coastal hikes guidebook that billionaire Paul Allen had invested a sizable sum toward "improving" the park area around Munson Falls. A little greasing of the locals' palms quickly revealed that hidden behind the falls is the entrance to another of Allen's secret bases, this one winding its way under the adjacent hills to the back door of the aforementioned Air Museum. Suddenly it all falls into place: That wily rich boy is using the prospect of bovine mutilations as bait for alien vessels, and while they're parked waiting for their side orders of cheese fries and soft-serve ice cream, he's pinching parts to build up his own spacecraft. Pretty sneaky!
May. 22nd, 2004 @ 04:03 am
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| » Day 112: Power to the (little) people |
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Saturday was just an all around weird experience. First, I had to get gussied up in this floofy dress for some formal reception for clan elders. The purple velvet bodice was pretty sweet -- but a taffeta slip and a tutu? I realize that it's polite to conform to the customs of official guests, but WTF, leave me my dignity. La Femme Nikita and that Alias chick endure this manner of abusive wardrobe on a regular basis in the course of covert ops, but at least they get to flip out and kick somebody's butt eventually. It gets worse though: They had all these ceremonial candles going. Now, I like candles as much as the next girl, so I figured, that's cool. What I didn't realize until it was too late, however, they were all laced with various euphoriant compounds. One, maybe two, would have been groovy, but a whole table top covered with them was just too much. I passed out cold and had to be carried out on a stretcher. In that dress. Oh, the humanity.
After my head cleared on Sunday, we trekked out to Eastside cul-de-sac hell on a recruitment campaign. Being an unstoppable army of one is all well and good, but honestly, that's a total guy thing and in the real world it just doesn't work. Problem is, most of my current volunteers are entirely too green (or yellow or lavender) to put up against a serious opponent. The Paddington Boys are a pretty tight unit, and spend most of the day practicing aerial formations, but their effectiveness in close-quarters combat is limited. (Actually, they put so much energy into acrobatics, I'm beginning to wonder if my "wanted" ad in for fearless troupes was worded properly.) And as for that French attack monkey, well, he's damned near useless, just hangs around the base all day cracking wise. So anyway, we screened this chick Zoe, but it quickly became obvious that she's just nowhere near battle-ready yet. The impression I got was that she's definitely living in the shadow of her pop, a serious bruiser of a cop from the adolescent riot control division. Word has it that he rode his turbocycle all the way from Tukwila to Capitol Hill with a gaping hole in his chest. Dude is seriously hardcore! His flapjacks could use some work though. Since recruitment seemed to be off the agenda, I asked for a look at the arsenal in the trunk of his cruiser. He politely declined, but his wife trotted out a consolation prize for me... my very own ninja grizzly!
I've been wanting one of these for ages. The old man and mother-unit have a couple ground assault ursa units, which I chatted up at one point to get a better feel for their tactical advantages. These two were a little doughy around the edges from not having seen much action lately, but there's still no denying the benefit of having a raging behemoth furball with bipedal mobility at your disposal. Mine lacks the same imposing bulk, but is cut like a Michelangelo and all tricked out with a slick m4tr1x-style trench coat. Definitely a cool customer, so I've been reluctant to start pestering straight away, but he's probably packing some serious heat under that thing. Bonus: He seems to be familiar with the Paddingtons, so integrating him into the team should be a snap.
Most nights I just fall asleep at the console in my custom floral print recliner. It's comfortable enough, and just the right height to deliver that lazy chimp a good swift kick first thing in the morning just for giggles. But I'm worried what so much chair time is doing to my posture, so today I tried roughing it on the base floor. Kinda nice to stretch out flat for a change, no more of that "princess and the pea" business. At least until I woke up an hour later -- oy, the crick in my neck! So after slamming a couple white russians to take the edge off, I crawled back to my cozy chair and resumed my regularly scheduled sleepy time.
May. 11th, 2004 @ 12:00 am
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| » Day 102: You and your old man Kung-Fu |
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Last Saturday, I went to quantumanomaly's "over the hill" party. His dojo is a straight shot from the zoo, so whenever one of the lemurs makes a break for it, they head there for shelter from the authorities. While we were meleeing for cheese-filled sausages, it came out that I had completely spaced about Sakura-Con, to which he was planning to chaperone his apprentice. I begged my superiors for permission, but they insisted it was too risky to allow me to attend this year, some ca-ca about "not enough discipline". What! Ever! I asked to see John's sword collection up close, since they were too high on the wall for me to reach (and to be respectful, of course), but he said there were too many untrained runts scurrying about, and one of them might end up with a limb sliced off. Duh, that's kinda the whole point, I replied. But he didn't want to upset any of the parents, since they are keeping him well stocked with tequila. Can't argue with that. There was one guy there though, that my old man looked like he wouldn't mind dicing up. Problem was, the guy was Middle Eastern -- the last thing you want is to start a jihad at your friend's cookout.
Sunday, I took it easy, except for an excursion in my mobile suit with my feminist studies instructor, Rhi, followed by a run to Gorditos for some fine Mexican cuisine. That burrito grande is bigger than my head! Seriously, I'm not kidding. Everything tasted great, but those Aztecs are renowned for their vengeful recipes: Shortly after returning home, I was howling in pain. This went on for several hours, until I let loose a giant fart, which seemed to set everything aright. And what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. Unfortunately, the houseplants didn't react so well to the aforementioned cloud of poisonous stench.
The rest of the week was mostly a wash, while I dealt with having to haul my mother-unit around to various robo-docs, before the servos in her knee assemblies start grinding metal. I did take my mobile suit out a couple mornings around dawn though. That really is the best time to go: The air is cool, the sky is perfect, and there aren't many people around, which means you can get in some serious off-road action in the local green areas. In general, it's just a fun and healthy way to start any given day.
My base modifications are coming along nicely. I scored a phat laptop last week, with a heads-up display and all the bells and whistles. So many, in fact, I'm not entirely sure what some of the buttons do, in particular the foot-shaped ones -- hopefully something that involves kicking ass. The layout and materials for the tendril defense screen around my control room are all in place, but I'm having to wait for bloody slow contractors to do the installation. I already had to scale back from my original plan for a full perimeter grid, because the designer balked, so the delay is really starting to bug me. I could probably do it myself, but you have to be careful with ancient facilities like this, lest the ceiling come crashing down on your head. Their saving grace is some of the quaint but handy features not available in more modern units. For instance, the floor's built-in intrusion detection system: No external power supply, no moving parts, random realignments (i.e. no replay attacks). Only downside is that because it is always-on, the old man is constantly tripping it at night and disturbing my sleep. It is kinda funny though to watch him either crawling on all fours or doing this weird flailing tiptoe dance, in a vain attempt to avoid setting it off.
Speaking of mister tall, dark and ineffectual: So today we were doing some impromptu sparring after lunch -- me with my razor nails, and him with his wussy short-range pincer weapon. Despite having the safety engaged, he managed to lop off a freckle-sized area from the tip of my middle finger. I didn't feel a thing, but when I went to flip him off with it, he caught sight of a tiny smidget of blood and started screaming like a schoolgirl. Yes, another fine graduate of the Joxer School of Combat. The mother-unit came in and tidied the flesh wound up, but the emotional trauma had already been inflicted. Eventually, I decided to just play possum: Look, I'm dead now, okay? That means my suffering is over, and you can stop whining! I fell asleep waiting.
Sissy-boy finally cooled down after a ride on his turbocycle, so he tagged along to the Kentucky Derby party at Magnus's house. The latter had started boozing early apparently, because he was already pretty out of it when I arrived. Alice seemed kinda annoyed and bored, given the situation. Fortunately things picked up once the other girls started arriving (Ava! xoxoxo!) and a good time was had by all.
May. 1st, 2004 @ 10:45 pm
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| » Day 94: Enter the oblongagon |
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The beauty of social engineering is that not only is it often the most effective means of intrusion, but it can be hella more fun compared to a more technical attack. Today I not only got inside the belly of the beast, but got a sugary pastry and a pat on the head by the gatekeepers for doing so. Three cheers for "Bring Yer Whelp to Werk Day"! Unfortunately I didn't meet the height requirements to register for the planned activities, which came with chaperones so permissive that they might as well be out on the street corner handing out keycards and lollipops to any midget that walks by. Not a problem though, and upon further reflection it's probably better not to risk a play prematurely and end up overreaching. Besides, I made some good contacts, which like any good garden flower, must be tended with love and patience before cutting them down in their prime and dangling them upside down from your bedroom wall. Oh wait, that's for your mortal enemies. Well, whatever, you have to go beyond a sparkling first impression to get at the real goods.
Case in point, I ran across the following online personal ad the other day:"ronin": 31 yo. NS, short, dumpy, indoorsy, enjoy long walks on virtual landscape killing NPC or other players in PVP. Prone to fits of blinding sarcasm and apathy... you wanna group? Be still my beating heart! I was about two shakes away from answering when my old man dropped in for some unscheduled howdy-doody time, and I had to hastily abort my session. No matter, because I do my homework before responding to any ad (there's a lot of weirdos out there, y0!) and traced the poster's IP back to his machine (conveniently accessible thanks to a trojaned level mod) which turned out to have a VPN tunnel back to (drumroll, please) my old man's workplace. Jackpot! So I made a point during the welcome breakfast to introduce myself to Mr. Right, aka "El Presidente". See, he apparently has this scheme to take over a small South American country, using the CIA to finance the operation and playing them for chumps against the local clergy/drug cartel, eventually leaving himself as the last man standing. Plenty of ambition in that one, if perhaps not the gumption to act on it singlehandedly. Now it's just a question of whether I make him an accomplice or a stooge. He's so dreamy kewt, too, I almost hate to throw him to the wolves.
Now back up, you're probably asking, what exactly are the "real goods"? Expensive networking equipment? Security trade secrets? Like one of those yummy onion blooms from Chili's, there are layers upon layers to penetrate. No, the grand prize -- or should I say "X-Prize" -- is what the lord of the manor has under heavy guard in a little-known sub-basement level of the building. For those attentive enough to media tidbits and #pentagon chatter, it's patently clear that Paul Allen and Dick Cheney are in a fevered race to complete their respective rocket bases and conquer the ripe Martian frontier. And here you thought the adjoining taxpayer-funded tunnels were just for transporting Metro buses. Baby, those megathrusters are mine!
Meanwhile back at the ranch, a quick look at dad's whiteboard and the code made it abundantly clear that this man has no business writing the operating system for Mister Coffee, much less security software. Jeezus, it was embarrassing! He's been on a lot of flu meds this week though, so maybe it was atypically bad due to that. His cubicle-neighbor is a different story. Say what you will about the former Soviet Union being a crumbled empire; some of those Eastern Bloc guys not only have mad skillz, but are just completely loco. Fortunately, his hands were sufficiently full keeping his own little Chaos Lord from attracting the eyes of the authorities with his kamikaze mischief, that my activities apparently slipped under his radar. Also, that Boris kid has scary feral eyes. Using him to run interference, while tempting, is likely fraught with unmanageable risk.
The rest of my visit was a blur, because like the mighty B.A. Baracus, I once again fell for the old drugged-milk routine and awoke hours later offsite. You'd think I would eventually learn. Speaking of untrustworthy dairy products: If you aren't reading nekoken, you're really missing out. Battles with rancid cheese, haw! That cracker boy is looney.
Apr. 23rd, 2004 @ 12:53 am
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