Not OK corral
The Small Man has mutated into a lurching lightningbolt of sudden and unrestrained mobility. There is no place that he is not, no haven from his sticky clutchings, no shelter from his perpetual regurgitance. He seems unimpressed by my many warnings, and totally disrespectful of my zone of death. I have even brought claws to bear on the situation, with somewhat dramatic, and rather impolitic results.
The playing field, though, has now changed. In a throwback to the Great Rodent Bulwarking of yesteryear, the Man and the Woman have resorted to the interpolation of gating mechanisms. These are not of the detachable plastic-mesh variety as before, but of polished wood, solidly mounted on hinges — a clear suggestion of permanance.
The strategic placement of these confinement units is almost identical to those which once contained the Rodent — two units positioned at key egress junctions effectively divide the fortress into fore and aft sections. The forward areas include the main ops center with its large viewport, big box, and generous disposition of cushions; access to the primary airlock; the main communications hub housed within the vertical coffin; the Man's elaborate chemistry set; and the conference annex with its long table and numerous chairs.
The rear section includes the main chamber (my current operational HQ) and the corridor; Fabio's old office with its cool floor and multiple spigots; the mess and staging area; and perhaps most importantly — access to both the entire lower bunker and the critically important rear airlock. Strategically, this is the area you want to be in when the doors slam home.
Most of the time, I have noted that when lockdown is in effect, I am the one contained to the rear areas. The Man, the Woman, the Rodent, and the Small Man almost always congregate in the much smaller (if more comfortable) forward rooms. I haven't precise calculations, but I estimate that this arrangement leaves me with 74.8% of fortress entirely to myself.
This should be an agreeable situation, should it not? I certainly have my flag on the lion's share of the field. Still, there are questions to be answered here. Exactly who is being contained, for one thing? Does this rewalling of the fortress indicate that the Small Man, now explosively mobile and single-minded in his grabbiness, is being corralled for the betterment of the world? Or... or: am I being excluded from some larger nefarious scheme?
I mean, why give me the better three quarters of the fortress? Why are the rest of them closing ranks? And why, in the name of all that's sanitary, are the Small Man and the Rodent never more than arm's (or tongue's) length from one another? Perhaps these new enlosures are not keeping them in, but keeping me out.
I smell a plot. I smell a careful and deliberate plot that includes everyone but Shmool. And its secrets lie on the other side of these bars.
I begin my tunnelling tonight.
The playing field, though, has now changed. In a throwback to the Great Rodent Bulwarking of yesteryear, the Man and the Woman have resorted to the interpolation of gating mechanisms. These are not of the detachable plastic-mesh variety as before, but of polished wood, solidly mounted on hinges — a clear suggestion of permanance.
The strategic placement of these confinement units is almost identical to those which once contained the Rodent — two units positioned at key egress junctions effectively divide the fortress into fore and aft sections. The forward areas include the main ops center with its large viewport, big box, and generous disposition of cushions; access to the primary airlock; the main communications hub housed within the vertical coffin; the Man's elaborate chemistry set; and the conference annex with its long table and numerous chairs.
The rear section includes the main chamber (my current operational HQ) and the corridor; Fabio's old office with its cool floor and multiple spigots; the mess and staging area; and perhaps most importantly — access to both the entire lower bunker and the critically important rear airlock. Strategically, this is the area you want to be in when the doors slam home.
Most of the time, I have noted that when lockdown is in effect, I am the one contained to the rear areas. The Man, the Woman, the Rodent, and the Small Man almost always congregate in the much smaller (if more comfortable) forward rooms. I haven't precise calculations, but I estimate that this arrangement leaves me with 74.8% of fortress entirely to myself.
This should be an agreeable situation, should it not? I certainly have my flag on the lion's share of the field. Still, there are questions to be answered here. Exactly who is being contained, for one thing? Does this rewalling of the fortress indicate that the Small Man, now explosively mobile and single-minded in his grabbiness, is being corralled for the betterment of the world? Or... or: am I being excluded from some larger nefarious scheme?
I mean, why give me the better three quarters of the fortress? Why are the rest of them closing ranks? And why, in the name of all that's sanitary, are the Small Man and the Rodent never more than arm's (or tongue's) length from one another? Perhaps these new enlosures are not keeping them in, but keeping me out.
I smell a plot. I smell a careful and deliberate plot that includes everyone but Shmool. And its secrets lie on the other side of these bars.
I begin my tunnelling tonight.
so sayeth Shmool on Monday, March 31, 2008
2 Comments:
I am so glad the brilliant Schmool is still alive and kicking in one of the best and funniest blogs ever. May he reign supreme!
Ah, thank you, my trothful.
Rest assured, the reign of Shmool shall march on unimpeded once these accursed walls have been rectified.
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