chores

my good friend the Q, who lives in boston these days, just applied for a job to be one of those people who stands in front of other people whose lives have been deemed more precious, in case somebody else decides to start shooting at that person. as part of the application process, they screened her for mental defects. "It was weird. They asked me if I'd been starting any big projects lately. Like if I'd started writing a novel," she reported.

what in the world does that have to do with your willingness to take a bullet for somebody else, I wondered. "Oh. They were trying to figure out if I was manic-depressive. It's one of the symptoms," she answered, because I'd been talking out loud without realizing it. again.

shit! that's serious stuff!! didn't the exact same thing just kill beloved character actor ronald reagan? and hadn't my helper monkey Major Blood just start writing a novel? and if we're sharing the same toilet, does that put me at risk? i figured it just might, but the only way to know for sure would be to have chowder get tested, since he actually drinks from the toilet.

"Chowder, would you willingly take a bullet meant for somebody more important than you?" i asked him. he mumbled something that sounded like a yes, so i sent him to apply for a job with those people. he came back two hours later, and he mumbled something that sounded like they'd given him a job protecting the mayor of japan's wife. in Japan. he's going to be shipping out to Tokyo at the end of July. this set my mind at ease for a moment, because he'd passed their little test.

my relief proved short-lived once i did a little research on japan. christ, they're probably deporting him because he failed the psych exam. i decided that keeping Major Blood occupied with menial tasks would slow the mad cow that was probably eating her brain, so i made her responsible for all the chores that chowder'd been doing. or was supposed to do. Major Blood threw on her cowboy bebop apron and laced up her rubber gloves to clean the fridge, but then she slammed the door shut immediately and ran away, babbling imprecations in her native tongue. i went to see what had spooked her.

a mold has been growing in there for awhile, but everytime i told chowder to clean it out he said he'd get to it, then play another game of Madden on the rookie level after trading both pro bowl teams onto the 49ers and turning down all the difficulty sliders. that's not so bad in and of itself, but Major Blood swore off killing after her honorable discharge from the Army, and i certainly can't kill the mold. it has grown strong, and become sentient.

the mold knows.

we've crossed a bridge today. a bridge too far, to my thinking. not only do i not have anywhere to keep my leftover chinese food, but by inadvertently striking the spark of life, chowder has rendered either evolutionary theory or creationism moot. what's worse, i'm sure there isn't even a branch of metaphysics capable of dealing with this situation, so all the religious studies majors i know have wasted their lives. chowder's ineptitude has officially become dangerous, if it wasn't already. God save the mayor of Japan's wife.

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.