Monday, January 09, 2006
The return of the red-i...
XXX
I should come as no surprise that Secret Attack Squirrel---thanks to the benefit of certain unspecified super-heroic powers of recovery---was the first to return safely to base after his most recent accidental release of one truly special and totally memorable fartbomb, the effect of which launched SAS along with the Emergency Response Team and Black Jack Briso all together helter-skelter into various and dissimilar low-earth orbits of unexpected duration. Dragging himself painfully and incrementally up the tree and then limping pathetically into the SAS G-HQ hanger, Secret's first words were a shocker: "Is Black Jack back yet?"
Thus precipitating a simple answer, "Not as far as we know," but a question still begged: "Why do you ask?"
"I ask because our flight-paths crossed somewhere over the Indian ocean and his speed appeared to be a couple of clicks faster than mine. But then he WAS going the long way around on an equatorial route, while I was flying pole-to-pole...and anybody who flies much knows the world's fatter one way than the other."
It was at just that moment when we heard a caterwhaling squeal go screaming overhead followed by a really-smallish sonic boom and rushing to the hanger-bay door, we were all thrilled by the spectacle of seeing a bone-tailed cat go streaking by in his meteoric descent into a nearby, recently-plowed corn field where last Halloween's "Field of Screams" maze had been set up. Someone observed on a particualarly rhetorically sardonic note, "Looks like Black Jack's back now, if yuh wanna know." Another asked, "Yuh think this cured him of the mange?"...Secret Attack Squirrel just nodded, then shrugged, then shook his head (somewhat stiffly) then turned away and staggered into sick-bay, saying, "Let me know when the ERT gets in---no more flight operations without them on duty, or at least on call, AND they gotta be ambulatory...I ain't flyin' no-moe tilt they be ambulatory."
Feeling sorry for Secret, this reporter asked, "Anything I can do? Anything I can get you?"
"Yeh," said he, "pain relievers, and lots of 'em, a fifth of 12-year old Scotch would be a nice start; but if that's asking too much, I'll settle for a pint of Lord Calvert, or even a twelve'er of Milwaukee's Best; and if that's still too much to ask, maybe some Mad Dog 20/20 and if you can't even swing that, a 40-oz bottle of Colt 45 or Old English 800--doesn't have to be cold. Maybe you should pass the hat."
Thus ends another day in the continuing saga of Secret Attack Squirrel's on-going battle with a way-ripe batch of left-over chili and some out-dated Jolt soda.
More phews at 11:00.
I should come as no surprise that Secret Attack Squirrel---thanks to the benefit of certain unspecified super-heroic powers of recovery---was the first to return safely to base after his most recent accidental release of one truly special and totally memorable fartbomb, the effect of which launched SAS along with the Emergency Response Team and Black Jack Briso all together helter-skelter into various and dissimilar low-earth orbits of unexpected duration. Dragging himself painfully and incrementally up the tree and then limping pathetically into the SAS G-HQ hanger, Secret's first words were a shocker: "Is Black Jack back yet?"
Thus precipitating a simple answer, "Not as far as we know," but a question still begged: "Why do you ask?"
"I ask because our flight-paths crossed somewhere over the Indian ocean and his speed appeared to be a couple of clicks faster than mine. But then he WAS going the long way around on an equatorial route, while I was flying pole-to-pole...and anybody who flies much knows the world's fatter one way than the other."
It was at just that moment when we heard a caterwhaling squeal go screaming overhead followed by a really-smallish sonic boom and rushing to the hanger-bay door, we were all thrilled by the spectacle of seeing a bone-tailed cat go streaking by in his meteoric descent into a nearby, recently-plowed corn field where last Halloween's "Field of Screams" maze had been set up. Someone observed on a particualarly rhetorically sardonic note, "Looks like Black Jack's back now, if yuh wanna know." Another asked, "Yuh think this cured him of the mange?"...Secret Attack Squirrel just nodded, then shrugged, then shook his head (somewhat stiffly) then turned away and staggered into sick-bay, saying, "Let me know when the ERT gets in---no more flight operations without them on duty, or at least on call, AND they gotta be ambulatory...I ain't flyin' no-moe tilt they be ambulatory."
Feeling sorry for Secret, this reporter asked, "Anything I can do? Anything I can get you?"
"Yeh," said he, "pain relievers, and lots of 'em, a fifth of 12-year old Scotch would be a nice start; but if that's asking too much, I'll settle for a pint of Lord Calvert, or even a twelve'er of Milwaukee's Best; and if that's still too much to ask, maybe some Mad Dog 20/20 and if you can't even swing that, a 40-oz bottle of Colt 45 or Old English 800--doesn't have to be cold. Maybe you should pass the hat."
Thus ends another day in the continuing saga of Secret Attack Squirrel's on-going battle with a way-ripe batch of left-over chili and some out-dated Jolt soda.
More phews at 11:00.
# posted by call me crazy @ 3:30 AM 
