What’s the matter with me? I thought I put that thing away about an hour ago. My mind is becoming unhinged. (Did it have a hinge to begin with? And if so, what was it hinge-ing upon?)
Weighty questions indeed. That’s what you get here at the hammer mill… the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, that is… where you can find the answer to any question but one – how the hell can we stand living here? Now, don’t get me wrong. It isn’t because the place isn’t well appointed (in fact, you might even say that it’s dis-appointed) – this is part of its rustic charm. As someone who has spent much of his life in the lap (or some other anatomical area) of luxury, living in a squat house can be a refreshing change. (Especially on days when you’ve got running water.) No, no… I’m referring to the recent change in ownership, to wit, the unfortunate turn of events that resulted in our corporate label, Loathsome Prick 
Records, acquiring the title to this old wreck. And before I go on, let me just ‘splain you about something – they don’t see this as an investment property, okay? They see this as leverage.
Leverage towards what? Good question. Seems like ever since the man-sized tuber was a baby carrot, these fuckers have been pushing us to release some product for them to push. Now, if you know Big Green at all, you know our credo… the quality goes in before the music goes out, or something like that. Sure, we’ve been working for years on this project, but damnit, we haven’t gotten to that quality part yet. Damned frustrating thing. We tried to insert the quality right off the bat, but it was just too big. Then Mitch Macaphee came up with a formula that would convert quality into a semi-viscous fluid, which we could then pour into our recordings. But that just managed to gum up the works, and we lost precious time… six months, I believe. (Just try to get semi-viscous fluid out of reel-to-reel tape spools. If you’ve ever seen The Reluctant Astronaut with Don Knotts, you know what I’m talking about.)
Who’s to blame? I think you know the answer to that question. (Oh, yes you do… don’t try to hide in the back, 
there – I see you!!) It is most assuredly Marvin (my personal robot assistant) who is responsible for the monumental cock-up that has befallen us of late. Now, I know what you’re going to say…. the same thing posi-Lincoln (the good one) has been saying all week: Marvin can’t help himself; Marvin has lost his tiny little nut; Marvin is addlebrained and cracked in the crown. Poor little Marvin, right? Well, goddamn it…. I’m sick and tired of this robot-coddling. If he’s got the poor judgment to go bonkers all over the place, the least he can do is avoid any kind of real estate transactions. I mean, it’s not like he’s a professional realtor or anything. Think of the issues they have to contend with! And I’m supposed to feel sorry for him? It’s unsupportable, damnit, unsupportable!
Phew. Well, I’ve gotten a little overheated here, my friends. And I apologize. I should let Matt take over the keyboard for a couple of weeks. Or maybe Big Zamboola. (Nah… he types with his ass.)
