Hasta la vista, whatever that means. Let’s see you daaaaance, sucka! No? Okay, how about, put your hands together! All the girls. Now all the guys. Now just the left side of the room. Now the right! Okay, now just the one-armed Methodists with gingivitis. Great, great….
Oh, hello. Didn’t expect visitors on such a stormy day. I’m just running through the list of stuff we should try to do at our CD release party, whenever that may come about. Gotta’ get the crowd going, don’t you? Don’t you? Perhaps I’m wrong. Well, it seemed like a good idea. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) is lending a prehensile claw. Yes, that’s right — I said Marvin. He is back, and so is Big Zamboola. That bloody ludicrous experiment in atmospheric science is well and truly finished, so they were able to make a soft landing in the courtyard of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill (our home bitter home). Great to have that strong right arm back again, I can tell you. (Though Marvin’s left arm was always the stronger one, so I may have misspoken.)
What was the outcome of Mitch’s grand experiment, you ask? The experiment that deprived us of essential personnel during one of the most critical points in the production of our new album? The experiment that necessitated gross extensions of our own menial responsibilities in and around the mill? That experiment??? Well, let me tell you. It was a success… a screaming success… if the intention was to make it rain incessantly for the past week and a half. I’m not at all sure that was the mission when the Zamboola-powered balloon left the ground, but it morphed into that somewhere just above the troposphere. And Marvin, good soldier that he is, refused to leave until the mission was accomplished. No cutting and running for him, my friend. (Also, he had no idea how to land that sucker, so that contributed to his stick-to-it-iveness. )
So now the rain is pouring in, filling up every crack and cranny in this creaky old mill, turning the streets into rivers and the rivers into moving lakes. Yesterday our replica J-2 spacecraft just floated away, its makeshift mast still crammed through the glass globe on the top of its hull. The basement is flooded, and the man-sized tuber has begun to resemble something recently yanked out of a mangrove swamp. (He’s growing knees, like a cypress tree. Very odd.) Trevor James Constable has secured some sort of floatation device for his patented orgone generating machine — god forbid that should ever get waterlogged. Why, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. Time itself might become unglued. We could find ourselves running backwards through days, months, years, even decades before that contraption dries out. Want to shed years off your face, figure, physique, etc.? Pray for rain. Beat the drum like war. ‘Nuff said.
Hoo-boy, well I’ve wandered a bit. (Looks like I’ve wandered into the outskirts of Pittsburgh – who knew?) Best get back to the work at hand before Matt gets pissed off and tries to shoot me with some clueless hunter’s gun. Aw, Matt…. put away the goddamn gun. There’s a good lad.
