Goodbye, Scarecrow. I'll Miss You Most Of All
So this is it. We come to it at last, the parting of ways, if only for a little while. I think it's best if I just hurry up and go before the state of California shakes itself apart.

I am universally beloved. I realize that. I had no idea that the thought of me leaving, if only for a week, would send the earth beneath my feet into spasms of despondent grief. The epicenter of the earthquake yesterday only missed my house by 30-40 miles. It seems the state doesn't have the heart to actually kill me, but it would like to register its displeasure.

Displeasure noted, California. Mourn not overmuch, dear state of my birth. I shall return.

Some bad news: my plans to take the whole family to Gitmo for the first-hand Enemy Combatant Indefinite Holding experience has been scrapped. It turns out they're in the middle of a major expansion over there. I've been to Disneyland when they're building or working on updating some rides and I can tell you from experience that it's just not as much fun. There are temporary walls everywhere, the crowds are funnelled into tighter and tighter passages and the lines for everything else NOT closed are just plain hell.

My wife has already taken the time off work, so we're still going on vacation and I'll still be gone, but we've just had to make some drastic plan-changes. It sucks because I already bought my own copy of the Koran and everything just so I could get the full Gitmo experience, but alas... I guess instead of being urinated on or splattered with fake menstrual blood, it will have to sit idly on my bookshelf next to my never-opened Bible and fight a long, silent holy war at the molecular level where their paperback covers touch.

Luckily I was able to get a last-minute deal on a tour package. Now instead of Gitmo, we as a family are booked to take the Dick Cheney Undisclosed Location Experience. I can't tell you where we'll be going exactly because I have no idea. All I know is that sometime between midnight tonight and midnight Saturday our home will be infiltrated by Secret Service personnel, we'll all be dragged from our beds, loaded onto a black helicopter and then shuttled off to a secret, secret bunker somewhere, buried deep in the earth. For the whole week we all get to live like a Vice President, which means massages (with happy-ending) in the mornings, security briefings in the afternoons and scornful, haughty dealings with the press in the evenings. We will be fed a steady diet of fatty, expensive French--sorry, Freedom--cuisine and RNC talking points.

After it's all done, we're supposed to come out with a healthy disdain for the press, the judiciary, checks-and-balances and democracy in general. The brochure says if we're not completely satisfied with our experience, we can "go fuck [ourselves]".

I'm really looking forward to it.

It's possible that I might have some kind of encrypted and coded access to the internets while I'm away, so don't be surprised if there are mini-updates here and there. Or maybe that's a ploy to keep you coming back here and checking everyday just in case. Who can say?

Anyway, just because I'm going to be in a nuke-proof dressed-up hole in the ground beneath a mountain somewhere doesn't mean you people get off scot free, oh no. I'm assigning homework.

Your assignment is to find and then watch this film:



There has been quite a bit of chatter over our little corner of the blogosphere about the danger of household robots, so I thought this film would be most appropriate. Tom Selleck, Kirstie Alley, Gene Simmons, murderous appliances... what else could you want? You'll never look at your toaster the same way again.

When I come back, we'll be having a round-table discussion about this film. Don't be caught unprepared. This is your final warning. No make-up work will be accepted.

All right, that's all I got. Watch this space next Sunday June 26th night at the latest (unless, like I said, surprise updates during the week... if you don't check, you won't have the instructions where to find the free candy!) for fresh Bucket.

Until then, Bucketeers, I bid you an indifferent adieu. I can't say that I will miss you, but if it makes you feel any better, my OCD will. When my fingers start air-typing at around 9 am Monday morning, I'll know it's time to medicate.

Peace out, bitches.



This post on the Narcissus Scale: 10.0


Pops
- posted by Pops @ 9:21 AM