Tag Archives: mitch

Usual Rubbish

Schism.


Give me that back door religion, give me that back door religion, give me that back door religion, it’s good enough for me!

That’s the song we’re singing here at the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now that Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been plying his new trade as preacher, flock-leader, and chief financial officer of the local diocese of the Space Hippie Sect. Yes, it’s a religion he made up using bits and pieces from Hulu reruns he watches in his ample spare time (contrary to common belief, robots are slothful creatures generally, their servos idle nearly 65% of the time). Turns out it was time well wasted, as the converts have been trudging in, eyes glazed, arms extended in front of them, hungry for spiritual guidance. Didn’t know Marvin was so good at getting money out of people. Must be new programming… for somebody.

How do we of Big Green feel about floating our household on donations to a church hastily invented by a renegade robot? Well, not bad, actually, times being what they are. It’s always good to see a small business owner succeed, and if Marvin isn’t that, I don’t know what he is. And even though the church gatherings involve a good deal of tuneless singing and electric space-banjo playing, they pay for the lights, the heat, the occasional pizza. Life is good. At least until the police arrive. (Note to police: If you read this blog regularly, please be advised that this is “satire” and therefore constitutionally protected speech, not a Web-based confession of ill deeds. Nor is this claim a lame effort to keep you from breaking up this great little scam we’ve got going….. um… in the satire.)

Okay, so maybe it’s not completely on the up and up. At least it beats the down and down… hands down. Why, even Mitch Macaphee seems to think Marvin’s on to something, and he rarely admits to any interest in money or valuables, unless they can be easily converted into experimental subjects. (A true scientist, our Mitch.) And face it, we’ve sold our integrity a whole lot more cheaply than this in days past. Those of you who have followed us since… well… three weeks ago know that this is true.

Well, off to another revival meeting. Trouble is – when the faithful decide it’s time to go to Eden, what then? ROAD TRIP!

Usual Rubbish

Boom goes the dynamite.


No, Mitch… I’ve never been to Rome. Yes, I’ve seen pictures of the Coliseum, but I’m not sure where you’re going with this. It’s a nice thing in its place, but…

Oh, hi. Just having a word with Big Green’s mad science advisor, Mitch Macaphee, professor of interstellar astro-geology ….and explosives, apparently. (He’s got tenure at the school of hard knocks.) It’s endearing to see a proud father try to help his son. In saying so, I don’t mean to suggest that what Mitch is engaged in right now in any way resembles that wholesome impulse. No, no… that would require some modicum of sanity. I’m afraid Mitch is both attempting to help his creation, Marvin (my personal robot assistant), and blow his ass to kingdom come. Unintentionally, perhaps, but nevertheless… this is what he is attempting.

Let me ‘splain you. (Damn… I’m starting to talk like Tom Coburn at a confirmation hearing!) Marvin got himself a little gig as a bomb-sniffing robot over at the local Homeland Security training center, where people in space suits pretend to decontaminate children’s birthday parties populated by life-size plastic kids and a genuine layer cake. How’s he doing? Good as can be expected for a novice. You know how it is – you get your claws singed once or twice and, hey – you know better, right? That’s been Marvin’s experience. Never an overachiever, you know. I like to encourage him, particularly when it means he’ll be bringing home a few bucks for the housekeeping. (See, he also does the housekeeping. We’ve convinced him he should pay us for that. Long story.)

Anyway, Mitch thinks Marvin should be moving a bit faster in his training. So he’s begun to devise little problems for him to solve right here at home. One such problem – an explosive device of frightening magnitude – was planted in a broom closet just downstairs from my bedroom. Marvin defused it, fortunately… though I think it was a lucky break, frankly. (He stepped on it while sweeping out the hall and apparently pulled the ignition wire loose.) Next it was dynamite in the oven – enough to blow a massive hole in the side of our beloved abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. This is what prompted Mitch’s reverie about the Coliseum. (He thinks we could turn the mill into a tourist destination if it looked more like ruins.)

Not sure how this is going to come out, but you’re likely to hear. Just listen for a distant boom. That’s us!

Usual Rubbish

Day job.


Did you hear that? Hmmmm…. no, neither did I, I guess. How about that? You too? No. No, I didn’t either. Okay, nevermind.

See, here’s the problem with trying something new – you just don’t know how the hell to do it. I keep telling my colleagues this all of the time, but do they listen? No. Oh no, Joe, they tell me, I know just what I’m doing. And besides, bungee jumping off the Eiger doesn’t seem all that challenging to me, at least from the comfort of my easy chair. You try to help a brother out, and that’s what you get – a load of attitude, special delivery. I am depressed.

I might have mentioned last week how, out of desperation, various members of the greater Big Green cohort have been ranging around this backwater town, looking for means of gainful employment, no matter how demeaning. Well, as you might expect, WAL*MART and Home Depot were not hiring our kind, so we’ve been forced to apply some creative thought to the problem. As it happens, some of us tend to be a bit overly creative. And so we encounter what might be described as distortions of normal reality, in which familiar actors become involved in highly unfamiliar undertakings. And, well, yes… I am talking about Marvin (my personal robot assistant); official bomb-sniffing robot of the Little Falls constabulary. Such an honor. NOT!

I don’t know why Mitch Macaphee programmed cluelessness into Marvin. Seems to me he could have done just as well without it. In any case, he made the simple calculation that a bomb-sniffing robot would have very little to do here in sleepy upstate New York. Under normal circumstances, that might be so. But we are at WAR, as you know, and any resources our local police organizations can bring to bear in support of that fight may be deployed without warning. That’s where Marvin comes in. We have a Homeland Security training center around here someplace, and they’ve roped Marvin into live-fire drills, climbing over concrete walls and pulling ticking bombs out of baby carriages. Not at all what he was expecting.

Hey, I warned him. What else can a mentor do? We try to direct our charges, but…. they have minds of their own. (Or at least half-minds of their own.)