Tag Archives: Cheney Hammer Mill

Usual Rubbish

Mumbly peg.

2000 Years to Christmas

Well, Mitch’s idea went bust, and now he’s amongst the legions of unemployed. Turns out the Cheney Hammer Mill doesn’t meet the standards necessary to be designated a medical waste repository. This place doesn’t even make an adequate garbage can. Cheese and crackers.

So, here we are. Always wondered what it was like to be a band back in the Great Depression. Now it’s starting to look like the good old days. Anti-Lincoln, of course, remembers the panic of 1857, when he lost all that money he had dumped into railroad stocks. (His posi-tronic doppelganger, the actual Lincoln, came up as a railroad lawyer, which is why the two never saw eye to eye.) Then there was the post-war recession of 1865-67, when Anti-Lincoln lost his shirt again. (He found it in 1870. Turns out it was dropped into his neighbor’s laundry bin by mistake. He always blames the Jacobins for that, but then … he blames them for everything.)

With the social distancing requirements in place, we obviously can’t make money busking. I’ve been sending Marvin (my personal robot assistant) out to do errands for people on the reckless assumption that COVID-19 doesn’t like the taste of brass and tin. He did a couple of grocery runs for our elderly neighbor, Peg, but he kept getting her order wrong, mostly because, at ninety-seven, she doesn’t speak very distinctly. Even with his hypersonic hearing, Marvin kept mistaking “cantelope” for “antelope”, and coming back with some nameless cuts of brawn that he would claim was antelope but which was probably beef or mutton. When he handed her a box of Cheerios instead of a bottle of Cheer, that was the last straw.

Well, times being what they are, we’ve all decided to pool our resources and conserve provisions to the greatest extent possible. Turns out Mitch Macaphee has been holding out on us – he’s got a veritable Aladdin’s cave of canned vegetables. Mostly wax beans, sadly, but that’s better than beets. We’re not super particular, as you know. The only thing Anti-Lincoln refuses to eat is Chicken Fricassee, which was President Lincoln’s favorite dish. (Again, those two just didn’t get along.) Hey, once you’ve sampled the fare on Aldebaran, you’ll be glad for whatever terrestrial food you can get your hands on. Those fuckers literally eat molten rocks. For breakfast! (Lunch, maybe. But only with a nice chardonnay.) Some think we’re not tough enough for hardships like this, and well, maybe they’re right, but – and this is important – it’s not nice to say things like that. You can hurt people’s feelings.

Hey, stay home, folks, and listen to some music … like, I don’t know … how about Big Green?

Uncategorized

Hoarding.

2000 Years to Christmas

Ten thousand dollars? Dude, no one in this hammer mill has got that kind of money. At least … not that I’m aware of. Maybe Mitch is holding out on us. (He could be a counterfeiter, actually.)

Oh, hi. Just caught me in the middle of a little negotiation. I’m trying to work out the terms on a major purchase. What kind of purchase? Well, I’ll give you three guesses. No, not a PA system. No, not a hippie van with 3-D painted plaster sunflowers sticking out all over the place. Give up? I’m trying to buy a can of soup. Yes, one can of soup. Not the greatest soup in the universe, you understand … just your basic, run-of-the-mill lentil soup, the kind mother used to make … when she made cheap-ass canned soup.

Now, I know your next question is going to be something like, “But, Joe … why in the world would a can of soup cost ten thousand dollars?” Well, friends, I’m glad you asked. You see, it turns out to be true that it’s an ill wind indeed that doesn’t blow someone some good. The current pandemic crisis may have idled millions of workers, put bands out of business, and driven legions to the brink of poverty, but for some it is proving to be some kind of libertarian capitalist paradise. Scarcity, my friends, scarcity …. just drop by the local grocery store and you’ll see what I mean. You get there early, and the hoarding geezers have already ransacked the place. (Hey, anybody who wants to use “Hoarding Geezers” as a band name can have it, my treat.)

Hazmat mill.

How will we afford $10K-per -can soup? Well, as you know, we are an idea incubator here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. We put our heads together (mind you, not too close together … no more so than six healthy feet) and came up with absolutely nothing. Then Mitch Macaphee, our mad science advisor, announced that he had secured a deal with the regional hospitals as an overflow site. I was scratching my head over this – how could anyone think they move keep people here without making them sicker? Look what this place is doing to us! Well, it turns out they didn’t want extra space for people … they wanted extra space for medical waste disposal. Mitch is going to cash in … and we’ll have dump trucks loaded down with spent hypodermic needles backing up to the courtyard entrance.

A bunch of spent needles in the courtyard? Who would be surprised by that sight?

Usual Rubbish

Zombie playdate.

2000 Years to Christmas

I think I saw them coming up the road, just past the post office. Did you see them, too? No? Maybe I’m imagining things. Or …. maybe you’re gaslighting me! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE! SPEAK!

Oh … hello, readers. We were just, um … going over the household accounts. Seems the electric bill is overdue again. Just like last month … and the 120 months before that. (Maybe that’s why the lights are off.) Okay, I will own up to the fact that we are getting a little squirrel-y here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now that we’ve been ordered to shelter in place. Actually, the order doesn’t apply to us because, well … we’re not supposed to be living here, but what the law doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Still, in these plague times, it’s best to heed the warnings of public health officials. We’re masking up, donning the rubber gloves, and eating out of an autoclave.

Now, I’m not super fond of hoarders. That said, one of our number, and I’m not saying who (ahem … anti-Lincoln), came home with a boatload of canned soup, pasta, and toilet paper this past Tuesday. I know you’re going to tell me that he’s doing it for our own good, but you are so wrong, my friend – he’s keeping it all for himself. Anti-Lincoln has essentially walled himself off in the east wing of the hammer mill, cloistered in with his cache precious supplies, cackling through the brick walls at our hunger and privation. It’s not for nothing that he’s the anti-matter doppelganger of old honest Abe. I mean, think about it – would the great emancipator ever act in such a selfish way? Even when he was running for re-election?

Do not enter!

As the COVID-19 pestilence has closed in on our forgotten corner of the world, people appear to be heading for the hills. Our nasty upstairs neighbors lit out this week, lugging their high explosives and trained pole cats with them. Meanwhile, people from the low country who consider this “the hills” keep showing up at our door, seeking shelter. Some of them appear to think this is some kind of country estate, like in Boccaccio’s Decameron, where they can ride out the pestilence. They march out of the woods like zombies, hoping for a playdate, at least, if no apocalypse presents itself. We’ve stationed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) out in front of the mill as a sentry. Thus far, he has neither stopped any intruders nor invited anyone in, so on balance, I’d call that a success. (He did lose his balance once. Those gimbals need adjusting.)

Okay, well … back to the accounts. WHERE ARE YOU, YOU MISERABLE GUTTER SNIPE! I’VE GOT AN ACCOUNT TO SETTLE WITH YOU!