incognito

i got busy with the wedding, and then since i'm moving to seattle at the end of august with my predilection for speed (!!!), i've decided that in exchange for years of selfless public service, the grateful taxpayers should cover my relocation costs. i decided to step up my public service this past month, so i took a leave of absence from my rather unfulfilling job curing cancer and concentrated on infiltrating the russian mafia on behalf of the department of homeland security. needless to say, my work as a deep mole precluded me from updating this blog for awhile, lest i blow my cover. i know this has caused many of you some distress, especially all the ladies, but everything's back in order for the time being.

today was my last day of sworn testimony before the grand jury, so the russian mafia's pretty much out of business thanks to me. the Witness Protection people will pay for me to relocate to seattle, but we've had some arguements as to what behaviors are and are not permissible for an undercover operative to engage in while in the field, so while i'm immune from future prosecution i must never use a computer or date john ashcroft's daughter again. that guy totally hates me now. should i fail to comply, an anonymous informant will tip off the BMG music people as to my current whereabouts. i can't let those bastards find me. they cannot be bargained with, they cannot be reasoned with, they don't feel remorse, or pity, or fear. and they absolutely wil not stop, ever, until i'm dead. or pay my bill for that hootie & the blowfish cd. whatever. i've been on the running for years now, and i'm tired. someday i'd like to wake up from the unrelenting nightmare that my life has become ever since i bought those twelve CDs for 1 cent (And didn't there used to be a cent symbol on keyboards? I mean, seriously, what the fuck.). for now i'm sort of like forrest gump, just a renegade cop curing cancer and living on adrenaline, dispensing frontier justice from a post-apocalyptic dune buggy.

since i'm not allowed to use a computer, i have to type all this up on a manual Smith-Corona typewriter. i hired a Secretary-type girl to do the transcribing for me, and that's where the trouble started. she'd been leafing through The Late Major Sebastian Bludd's novel, and commented that my blog "is so much better than that novel." chowder momentarily snapped out of the alcoholic haze he's been content to pass his life in the last few years and helpfully chirped: "You never insult a man's penis. Or a novel written by a notoriously high-strung monkey."

precisely.

first, i had to give the Secretary-type girl her walking papers and, let me tell you, i'm never using that temp agency again. of infinitely more consequence to my adoring readers, however, The Late Major Sebastian Bludd went predictably apeshit upon hearing the Secretary-type girl's criticism and took over the Smith-Corona. i mean, totally monopolized it. didn't help that Silent J, the serbo-croatian down the hall, started selling amphetamines to my helpmonkey so i could hardly infiltrate the russian mafia with all that racket. anyway, i can use the typewriter again now because The Late Major Sebastian Bludd is dead now, killed by chowder's stupidity. now i need to go clean the mess in the parking lot.

oh, yeah: the marriage is fucking on.