REVISITING THE SCENE OF THE CRIMES

For several years I worked in a toy company, where I handled credit and collections. They never allowed me near the creative process, and for good reason. One of the first brilliant ideas I had was the "Little Miss Mayhem Junior Size Chainsaw". With a range of personalizational accessories!
Decals! Pink carrying cases! Tattoos! Studded pink belts!
It teaches her skills and assertiveness.
And it's cute!

Yeah, no. The head of the design department loved it, because at that point the phrase "it's all about the children" made him physically ill, and the whole idea of soft touchy-feelie non-competitive role-playing while feeding the gentle childish imagination was getting to him. Badly.
But it never went anywhere.
Rather a pity.


Another idea I had was not going to go anywhere either.
Action figures based on dietary preferences.

Vegan. Meat eater. Redneck. Food snob.
Mealie-mouthed gluten-phobe.
Lacto-vegetarian.
Angry.

You get the idea. Colour-coded, too.


This morning, while fixing my second cup of coffee preparatory to ablutions and leaving for lunch in Chinatown, I had what must be the all-times greatest idea for a toy ever!


FART BOX

Prerecorded, but can also be manually operated. Preprogrammable, and personalizable. Lets you experiment in the privacy of your own home, but also innocuous outdoors. With realistic and variable loudness.
Surprise your friends, surprise your family.
It's educational.

Perfect for little boys, ages five to twenty.

With, of course, a screen that tells you what it is, and teaches you about the various conditions.

Texts like: "the gentle oozing whisper from 'Timmy's' fart box ... "

Or just succinctly "beans, two hour delay."
.
"Uncle Bob, upon rising."



While I think most parents would love it, because it would keep their little treasure occupied for hours AND teach him something useful, I despair over selling the idea to toy companies and the buyers for large chains looking for end-cap filler. Those folks have no imagination.




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SAY SOMETHING NICE!

I am in receipt of an e-mail which made me smile. It’s always nice when someone takes time out of their busy schedule to send you a compliment – especially when it’s for a remarkable quality, skill, or characteristic.
As one of my coworkers did today.


"You are a very bad man, and I mean that in a good way."


See, stuff like that nearly makes me cry. It's so sweet! Thank you!
I had suggested that certain young visitors to the company needed rigid supervision in order to have fun.

Controlled fun. Strict guidance. Laugh on cue, dammit! Now clap and squeal!
Here's some sugar.
Sugar!
It's educational.


We still had some cake left over from Shank Dog's farewell party last week. It sat out on the kitchen counter from Wednesday till this Tuesday afternoon. I believe some kind soul must have refrigerated it since. And obviously it would be ideal for the little dears - surely they weren't expecting anything better? Cake with an image of an assault rifle on the icing. Perfect.

I also had a vision of running them around the block several times, but today's juveniles are just so out of shape. Pudgy. There's no way they could pull a chariot with a middle-aged man yelling "mush, mush". At least not with any great speed.
Fat lazy little peckers.



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GUNS, NUDES, METAL OBJECTS

Evidence of the Product Development Department’s eccentric agenda is mounting. Not only was there that incident at the window with the assault rifle (mentioned in a previous post), but we have seen the fish. Specifically, a large fish (five feet?) mounted on a board. We do not know what the fish represented, or why it was there.
As a company, we do not deal in fish.

Additionally, there are the photos. Many disturbing photos, which gradually revealed several themes: Nostrils. Beer. Motorcycles. Beer. Piracy. Beer. Greek violence. Beer. Body parts. Beer. Carboard tubes, beer, and strange nude dolls. Beer. Fried food. Beer.

A head-sized open face Reuben sandwich.

Shank Dog grimly insists that all of these things were involved in ‘research’. His jaw is clenched. He looks pale. His loyal staff nod affirmatively.

What, we sneeringly ask, could one possibly research with weapons, fetiches, and beer?

They cannot answer. They are mute.


They are hungover.

Yesterday was Shank Dog’s penultimate day at the company. True to form, it involved massive amounts of beer. Except for the fleshy old gal with the negligee and a feather boa, plus the man in Texas, everyone was complicit in an attempt to drink him under the table.
Ten years with the company. That means a lot of beer - some of it drunk through a luncheon meat straw.
I also recall a tub of onion dip and a bag of large gummy insects. Green and red and yellow. And beer.

Today, the giant fish, the oil-portrait of the elderly feathered bawd (someone’s mother?), the assault rifles, and the hospital gurney are leaving the building forever. More beer.
Bon voyage, Shank Dog. And G-d speed.
We’ll read about you in the papers one of these days.
I'm sure of it.
Beer.


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ZOMBIES!

Might as well face it, the Zombies are going to win. They have help.

This morning over coffee Savage Kitten and I got into a heated discussion about Zombies. Not an argument - the heat was caused by the fact that when she wakes up she's full of piss and vinegar, whereas when I wake up I am slow and lethargic like a normal person. Her mind is going ninety, mine is ambling along at thirty.
Conversationally, at that hour, I am the old geezer driving a nineteen sixties station wagon in the fast lane that she so desperately wants to pass. Old fart, move!

I brought up the scientific article that Tzipporah linked in a comment underneath the post about Shank Dog standing at a window with an assault rifle, facing the offices across the street.
My speculation was that he was going to deal with that nest of investment bankers over there, Tzipporah seems convinced that Shank Dog was just preparing for the Zombie Invasion.


REASONS A ZOMBIE OUTBREAK WOULD FAIL

Savage Kitten rejected the article's conclusions, based on "valid" reasons that I cannot remember (I may have mentioned that my brain was slow and lethargic), which she argued with verve and passion.

Whatever I said was ineffective, I clearly didn't understand the situation.

My input at that point may have been to wail sleepily "but but but, they're Zombies!"
It seemed reasonable enough to me - Zombies, being walking protein and rather stupid, would be eaten by wild dogs and IRS agents LONG before there were enough of them to swing the balance. Besides, legally the undead have no rights - they wouldn't be allowed on the bus, nobody would hire them, they'd stumble into traffic.......
I may not have remembered enough of the article Tzipporah had linked to make much sense.
Savage Kitten insisted that by the time society noticed the Zombies it would be far too late. They would have multiplied so rapidly that there would be no hope.
2, 4, 8, 16, 32, 64 ..... . Or even 5, 25, 125, 625, 3125 ........

Just in case, she happily started strategizing on their behalf. Zombies may not move very fast, therefore they would have to employ guile and tactics. Heck, no problem. They just need a leader.

How a woman who cannot find any redeeming qualities in a human-size cockroach can support America's undead is beyond me. Zombies just aren't worthwhile members of society.
She, on the other hand, values their potential input and will passionately defend their dignity.

Sensing I was losing the battle, I fled to the bathroom with my books and coffee.

While I was ensconced therein, she periodically padded up to the closed door to renew the assault.

"They'd probably eat solitary people when there were no witnesses first."

'You mean like elderly apartment dwellers?'

"No, more like drunks in the middle of the night."

'Oh come on, even drunks are hard to catch.'

"Not you - there you'd be, stumbling home from the bar at three in the morning, moving slowly because of your gouty foot......"

'I do NOT stumble!'

"Hah, I've heard you!"

'That must've been somebody else.'

"You ain't fooling the Zombies......."


It just seems so unfair. Not only is she backing the Zombies, but she's accusing me of being a tippler.
I hardly EVER drink to excess, I am the very epitome of probity!

Sane and reasonable behaviour are my middle names, sobriety is my one character flaw.

Zombies are just wrong!

Tonight some of us are going out drinking with Shank Dog. We'll probably have several cocktails, and it will be a happy party - we really appreciate his company. He's the only thing that stands between us and Zombies.
Or investment bankers.
I can't imagine anything worse than being eaten by investment bankers.


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HIGH CALIBER, SQUARE JAW

I work in a remarkable place. I have just seen photos of our design chief standing at the office window with an assault rifle. It doesn’t help matters that he has a military build, feral agility, and looks capable. There’s a resolve to his shoulders as seen from the back. Tense.
Locked, loaded, and ready to go.

We are several floors up. There are several floors of investment bankers across the street. One of these days, boys, one of these days.

Shank Dog - got gun, will travel.

Dot dot dot

Earlier today I overheard a conversation in which the following phrases occurred: “That looks terrible!” "Oh my G-d!" “You mean your doctor let you go like that?” "Yipes!" “It’s non-infectious.” "If anybody saw that, they’d be scared out of their gourd."

I do not know what the ailment is that elicited the comments, nor what it looks like. But I can imagine. Shank Dog's department probably has something to do with it – perhaps there was a leak from the lab. Someone broke the isolation on a tank of goo. We’re no longer sterile.

I’m thinking in terms of a Biblical plague or a Central-American parasite.


I really don’t have clear picture what EXACTLY they do in the design department. Testing, experiments? Lab rats, children?
Data is provided on a need to know basis, and I’m just an accountant.
All I know is that we sell “things”. “Things”, that’s what those are, “things”. Right? Shank Dog and his crew develop things.
The expression ‘weapons grade’ should not ever come to mind, forget that you heard it, just forget.
There’s no such critter.
We are investment bankers.
That is all.

I have NO problem with anything we sell. I will just repeat that I don’t know what it is.
Please don’t ask.

Still doesn’t explain why Shank Dog was at the window with an assault rifle…..

It’s Friday, I’m leaving soon, and I ain’t gonna say a darn thing. Just keep my mouth shut.
He probably won’t be here much longer.
Have good and safe weekend, y’all.