Tag Archives: Comet

Usual Rubbish

Shooting stars.

Mitch, I’ll be frank … I don’t think this is a good idea. I know it’s the middle of the night and most likely no one can see us, but that contraption makes a lot of noise and … well … never mind.

Oh, hi. Yeah, I’m trying to talk our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee off of the ledge again. This time I mean it literally – he’s up on top of the Cheney Hammer Mill, all worked up in a lather about the recent news from deep space. Did you hear about it? Well, in case you haven’t, the space probe Rosetta has crashed into Comet 67P/Churyumov–Gerasimenko after having gathered data about what that cosmic snow cone is made of.

This kind of news always sets Mitch off – he’s apparently got a hand in every celestial body from here to Andromeda, I’m gradually discovering. He’s a bit like Heath on the Big Valley. Every time a stranger comes to town, it turns out that Heath had “sworn to keel him” at some point. (I always wondered why brother Jarrod, being a lawyer, never demanded that Heath write up a list of everyone he ever swore to keel … I mean, kill.)

Aim high, Mitch.Anywho, Mitch’s overheated response to the comet collision news was tantamount to a declaration of war. He brought Trevor James Constable’s patented orgone generating device out of mothballs, tinkered with it for a few hours, then – with the help of Marvin (my personal robot assistant) – hauled the pile of junk up to the roof of the mill and pointed its multi-pronged array at the heavens. He borrowed one of our longer extension cords, fired the orgone generating machine up, and started muttering to himself. “Yes, yes …” he said maniacally. “It won’t be long now.” (I’m leaving out the twisted little cackle he interjected between phrases as I do not wish to frighten the children.)

I’m not clear on what Mitch hopes to accomplish here. The orgone generating device, after all, does little other than its core functions of opening time portals and attracting invisible flying predators. In short, it’s a poor choice if you’re planning on shooting stars.

Usual Rubbish

Posse comet-at-us.

Electrodes to power! Turbines to speed! Hand on the main throttle, Marvin (my personal robot assistant)! Man, that’s hard to say with any urgency.

Never hit nothin' that way.Oh, hi. Caught us in full-on crisis mode here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, as of now Planet Earth’s first line of defense against the menace of stray comets invading the inner rings of our solar system (where most of us reside). Or so it would appear. Seems like the planetary defense systems maintained by major world governments have been caught asleep at the wheel on this one, so bloody hell, it’s up to us to save Earth’s bacon. And its beans. And, of course, its life-giving stilton cheese. I could go on, but again … we’re in CRISIS mode.

You’ve no doubt heard of the dry alien comet named “Comet 67P”? The European Union has just landed a probe on its surface with the intent of drilling into it. My guess is that they’re looking for shale oil, though they vehemently deny that. Anyway, fracking or no, this has surely invoked the comets ire, as we have been reliably informed by our mad science adviser Mitch Macaphee. We had a pretty shrill Skype conversation last night during which he explained the whole thing to yours truly and my fellow Big Green denizens. Something to do with Baratold rays and a slight shift in field density. All the science, I don’t understand! But I must take Mitch’s word for it.

Anywho, the comet is good and angry. Wouldn’t you be, too, if the EU had dropped a probe on you and ordered it to drill into your face? I know I would. Damned annoying. So Comet 67P is intent on crashing into the Earth’s surface – a kind of cosmic “How do you like it?”, I guess. Our only defense against this interstellar suicide bomber? Trevor James Constable’s abandoned Orgone Generating Device. Mitch told us to point the array in the general direction of the approaching comet and crank it up to eleven. Sounds as good a method as any. That’s supposed to counteract the comet manitou and correct the space time continuum … or something. (Mitch was talking fast.)

So, look … if it works, you should be seeing our podcast drop in the next few days. If it doesn’t, well … not to put too fine a point on it, but … likely you won‘t see the podcast drop.

Usual Rubbish

Genericville.

Do we have 1.5 children? Only if you double-count the man-sized tuber. Let’s ask anti-Lincoln to do the counting – ever since the war, he sees everything twice.

Stupid comet!Oh, hello. Just working up our census form. Don’t mind me. Didn’t know there was going to be a 2014 census, but I guess that’s understandable, since we don’t get a lot of news flowing into the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, our squathouse. Just yesterday some dude in a Fedora knocked on the front gate and handed me a questionnaire. He said I had to finish it by Saturday or his friend might set the mill on fire. (I think the friend’s name was Giancarlo.) How old is Mitch Macaphee? No … I mean before the youth serum?

Questions, questions. Way too much on Big Green’s plate lately, I can tell you. We’ve got the THIS IS BIG GREEN podcast, of course – always time-consuming. Our next episode of Ned Trek, for instance, will feature as many as 6 or 7 new songs, never before heard (and probably never again), all apropos of the ridiculous story line. This is part of the biggest crop of new material to come out of Big Green in, I don’t know, twenty years or so. Over the past year or so, we’ve written and began recording something like 30 new songs; that’s since we finished Cowboy Scat: Songs in the Key of Rick last year.

Then there’s the pressure to get out and play in front of an audience, for chrissake. We considered doing a gig or two on Mars this month, but given the fact that the red planet is going to be buzzed by comet Siding Spring this weekend, we thought better of it. We have had run-ins with comets before; can’t say that we ever got the better of those confrontations. Chilly little hunks of ice, those comets. No pity. Who can blame them? They’re billions of years old, and only get a little sun once every million years or so, then it’s back to the Ort cloud. But I digress.

Hmmm…. Should I account for multiple personalities on this census form? Yes, I’m back on anti-Lincoln again (and his alter ego, anti-Edgar Allan Poe).