Spread some oil on them sticks. That’s good. Now bring a bundle of straw over here. In a bunch, in a bunch! Okay…. kerosene. Where’d I put it? What? You sure that’s not Vodka? Well… take a glug and let me know. Now, who’s got a match?
Yikes – didn’t know you were logged on. Again, I apologize. Keeping this place in order is a 24/7 kind of job, as you might well imagine. Yes, friends – the Cheney Hammer Mill may be a decrepit, broken down, fetid old ruin with rising damp and water snakes in the basement, but it’s home and every once in a while you need to start a bonfire in the courtyard to let the place know you still care. Oh, you may laugh. You may laugh! But we have our traditions here in Big Green. One of them is making Marvin (my personal robot assistant) do all the heavy work. (Of course, that’s more a habit than a tradition.) More to the point, another of our traditions is that of setting bonfires on alternate Saturdays during the growing season when the moon is in crescent phase. I admit it doesn’t happen all that often, but then neither do the Olympics. So what of it?
Sounding plaintive, am I? You should hear my cohorts. Hardly a moment passes without giving rise to a new gripe. Earlier this week, it was the man-sized tuber, kicking up a fuss over his terrarium being a bit too snug. And when I say “kicking up a fuss,” I don’t mean literally, of course. Tubey has no feet, as you know, only roots, and he moves rather slowly. 
It was just the look on his… his… his north-facing side (the side with the moss); I could just tell he was dissatisfied. It was an expression veritably dripping with indignation. (Though it may have been some kind of syrup, to be fair. You know how yams get this time of year – kinda juicy.) And those bloody Lincolns – posi and anti – never stop bickering over who ignored the warning signs just prior to secession and who let the rebs walk away with the first battle of Bull Run. I could knock their bearded heads together! Oh, why… why did Trevor James have to cart his orgone generating machine back to the states? Why couldn’t he send those freaks back to the 1860s, where they belong?
The only one not complaining is brother Matthus, and frankly he has the most to complain about. After all, our entirely grisly and unreasonable corporate label, 
Loathsome Prick, has demanded a finished album out of us by the middle of November. That’s a lot of finishing, and frankly it’s not going to happen. (Just don’t say anything, okay? I’m not ready to go into the ground just yet.) Sure, we’ve got the sucker recorded – fifteen songs in the can, most of which are mixed. But we’ve got a lot of mastering to do, and we haven’t even worked out a running order. (I know, I know…. in the era of the iPod, who cares, right? I do, damn it!) Then there’s designing the package, pressing the disc, distribution… not a ten-week job, friends. And yet Matt is not taking it real hard. Just sorting his anvils, like any normal person. Won’t even join me in a game of mumbly peg. Geez.
Ouch! Now I know why he doesn’t want to join me. Because I don’t know how to play mumbly peg. Our old pirate friend, Admiral Gonutz showed me the ropes a few years ago, but I’ve lost the knack. So it’s bonfire time, friends. Light ’em if you got ’em. And bring a bucket.
