What the hell is an aluminum falcon?

Needless to say, it’s been an eventful and all-consuming week. Then again, if it’s so needless to say, why did I say it?

Because I’m complex.

The drive down was particularly uneventful. By “uneventful,” I mean driving for 14 hours a day for three days will cause a person’s brain to turn into a viscous goo, making it virtually impossible to retain any information input during that time.

A few items of note are the two piles of dog shit outside the hotel room in Evanston, Wyoming, the cows fucking in New Mexico, that decent fried okra can be had at the only gas station in Bellevue, Texas, and that my cat goes into the litter box to fart.

The offices of the OTR Institute are still in the transition period, and for the time being, will be making broadcasts from our secret remote location, that’s right, the same one where they send Dick Cheney when the compressor in the White House refrigerator clicks on and spooks the cook staff. We got our cans of beans and our potable water, try and find us you pigs!

Life is still somewhat surreal, and until I start my new job, I most likely will not be able to shake this feeling that I’m on vacation. However, much like vacation, the familial obligations seem to be piling on the Smurfs at Smuckfest. That’s right, I’m Smurfette.



In the meantime, I’d like to point the attention of my local readers to an organization in its infancy. The Young Professionals of Acadiana is a group that meets monthly to give the nubile corporate fodder in this town the opportunity to shake each others hands and talk about how great they are for a few hours while sucking down imported beers and using words like “litigationary.” All in all, the first meeting was a success, especially for an organization so young, and I wish the heartiest of congratulations to its founder and president, Captain Turdy McPoop-Bottom.

Way to go, Ace.

As the Captain and I were chatting on the sidewalk after the “event,” we were approached by strange-looking fellow in a baggy hoodie. He immediately began to mumble incoherently and hand Luke his driver’s license. I managed to glean a few words from Mush-Mouth, and pieced together that he’d been in prison for something and would like some money, or at the very least a cigarette. Luke gave him some change, and as he turned away, we both immediately left the scene for our respective cars, parked in opposite directions.

About a block away, I began to replay the encounter in my head. “Did he say what I think he said?” I asked myself. I thought about calling Luke as I fingered my cell phone.

Suddenly it rang.

“Did that guy say he was in prison for assault for putting a stick up someone’s ass?” asked Luke.

“Yeah, I heard that too. I think he said he went to prison for sticking something up someone’s ass because ‘that’s how they fuck with you up there’” I replied.

“Yeah. That’s what I heard too.” Luke agreed.

So, who knows what colorful characters you’ll get to meet at the next YPoA meeting. A drunken sailor bent on fondling your kneecap? Perhaps an insane ex-toll booth worker who wishes to extol the group with his fascinating collection of memorabilia from the set of Biodome? I have my fingers crossed for the guy that gets paid to watch paint dry.

In any case, our pirate broadcasts of the OTR Institute’s brainwave patented brainwave-altering info-tainment will be erratic in the coming weeks, until we can find a legitimate base of operations from which to unleash our wretched and rancorous musings on the unsuspecting internet.

Until then, in the immortal words of Wilford Brimley, “Check your blood sugar, and check it often.”