Sproach!!!

It's Halloween again, which means 2 things:  my first ever attempt at pumpkin carving

I should have gotten bigger bolts

and the release of the much-anticipated sequel to last Halloween's classic horror/scifi movie Spants.

So, without further ado:

Spants II:  Sproach

Country road. Old truck drives along, driven by Farmer B. Suddenly, his eyes go wide. He jerks the wheel. Zoom out as the truck rolls in air and lands, then bursts into flames.

Sheriff’s office

Door opens, ringing quaint bell above door. Sheriff (formerly Deputy) sits morosely. Dispatcher walks in, carrying donuts.

Dispatcher: “Mornin’, Sheriff”

Sheriff: “Hey, Dispatcher”

Dispatcher sets down box.

Dispatcher: “Okay, we need to have a talk.”

Sheriff: “About what?”

Dispatcher: “You. You may have been appointed after the former Sheriff resigned in disgrace over ignoring the Spants outbreak, but you’re up for re-election this year. You’re going to have to pull it together. You may be wildly popular for your heroics last year, but Old Sheriff has his friends.”

Sheriff: “Maybe I don’t want the job. I should have just gone with her.”

Dispatcher: “Enough of that. You belong here. Sister belonged in the big city where she won’t be typecast. Get over it. Besides, the hot teacher in our small-town school has been eyeing you for years.”

Sheriff: “You mean my high school sweetheart?”

Door opens and Farmer A rushes in.

Farmer A: “Sheriff, come quick!”

Sheriff: “What’s wrong?”

Farmer A: “There’s been a wreck! It’s Farmer B.”

ICU

Machines: “Beep. Beep.”

Sheriff: “How’s he doing, Doc?”

ICU Doc: “Not good. He’s fading in and out of consciousness. He’s got massive internal bleeding and burns over 40% of his body. He probably won’t last the night.”

Farmer B: “Sheriff.”

Sheriff (rushing to bedside): “I’m here.”

Farmer B: “Sheriff, they’re ba—“

Machines: “BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPP”

Farmer B’s rebellious teenage son enters room.

Kid: “NOOO!!!!!!”

Outside hospital

Kid: “He was never proud of me. That’s all I ever wanted to hear.”

Sheriff: “Yes he was. He talked about you all the time.”

Kid: “Well, he never told me.”

Sheriff: “He was just hard on you because he knew you had so much potential.”

Kid: “When did he say that?”

Sheriff: “Typically right before having me run you down for joyriding again. Your habitual joyriding in hot-rods that display a handy skill with everything mechanical.”

Kid: “Handy?”

Sheriff: “Later. I have to go look at the crime scene.”

Wreck site

Farmer A: “You notice that there’s huge damage to the grill? It rolled over, but didn’t hit any trees.”

Sheriff: “I’ll take a closer look.”

Farmer A: “What do you see?”

Sheriff: “Something’s stuck in it. Hey this looks like a big bug leg. You don’t think…”

Farmer A: “Can’t be. We got them all last year!”

Sheriff (finds large shell and holds it up): “Apparently not. This look like a cockroach shell to you?”

Farmer A: “Aw, hell. Now they got armor. I think we oughta leave.”

Sheriff: “Me, too.”

Town meeting

Former Sheriff: “You said we were all safe after last year! You said you got all of them!”

Sheriff: “I never said anything of the kind. I said we couldn’t find anymore.”

ICU Doc: “No, but I assured them it was all over!”

Sheriff: “Well, that just makes you an idiot.”

Former Sheriff: “If I’m elected, I’ll clean up this town of sproaches!”

Teacher: “Like you did last time?”

Bar

Sheriff: “I appreciate your support at the meeting.”

Teacher: “Look, we all know you’re doing your best.”

Sheriff: “I guess that’s comforting. Incidentally, what can you tell me about Kid?”

Teacher: “He’s brilliant, yet has discipline issues, most likely due to his father’s aloofness. Why are you so concerned with him?”

Sheriff: “Well, he just lost his father. I can relate.”

Ms. Teacher: “Well, I think there may be more than that, too.”

Sheriff: “Really?”

Teacher: “Yes. He also seems to have a crush on the really hot but also totally sweet homecoming queen who’s been waiting for him to make a move for years.”

Sheriff: “And you know this how?”

Teacher: “She works with me volunteering down at the hospital. In fact, we’re going with some kids from the children’s ward to a charity thing.”

Sheriff: “With ICU doc?”

Teacher: “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why, jealous?”

Sheriff: “Of course not. Despite my absolute disdain for him, his hippiness, and the fact that he’s backing my opponent in the race due to the way I embarrassed him last year, it’s your life.”

Teacher: “That is precisely the wrong answer.”

Teacher stands up and storms off in huff. Sheriff looks at bartender. Bartender shakes head in amazement at Sheriff’s ineptness.

Sheriff’s office

Farmer A: “Well, if this map’s correct, they’re lining Highway Random Number.”

Sheriff: “But that’s the route Teacher’s bus is taking!”

Kid: “We have to stop them!”

Dispatcher: “Too late! I just got a call. The bus has disappeared!”

Sheriff: “Farmer A, go do some flyovers! We have to find it!”

Bus

ICU Doc: “Don’t worry. They’ve taken us hostage. That shows intelligence. I think I can reason with them. I’m going out there to open a dialogue.”

Teacher: “Don’t go!”

ICU Doc steps outside and is immediately cut in half by large sproach.

Teacher: “Well, that was thoroughly gratuitous.”

Homecoming Queen: “Too bad, too. He was awfully cute.”

Chunk of torso slams into windshield then slides down streaking blood.

Homecoming Queen: “Not so much anymore.”

Teacher: “I’m rather surprised he survived the last time.”

Sheriff’s office

Farmer A: “I found them!”

Sheriff: “Where?”

Farmer A: “They’re at the old quarry.”

Kid: “How are you going to get them?”

Sheriff: “Grab your tools and meet me at the absurdly well-stocked armory.”

Armory

Sheriff: “So, do you think you can make her work?”

Camera pulls out to show old Bell 47.

Kid: “Of course. But who are you going to get to fly it?”

Sheriff: “It’s old and simple. I figure Farmer A can figure it out.”

Kid: “I may have a better idea.”

Helicopter

Sheriff: “Remind me how you learned to fly one of these?”

Kid: “Ten years of Microsoft Flight Simulator!”

Sheriff: “That seems a bit far-fetched.”

Kid: “As far fetched as a high school full of students, none of whom have acne? Dude, just go with it. By the way, what’s the stereo for?”

Sheriff: “Ever see Apocalypse Now?”

Kid: “I’m not that old.”

Sheriff: “If you weren’t my pilot, I’d throw you out here and now.”

Sheriff hits switch and “Flight of the Valkyries” starts to play.

Quarry

Kindergartner A: “Ms. Teacher! What do we do?”

Teacher: “Just stay calm. I’m sure help is on the way.”

Kindergartner B: “Do you hear music?”

Teacher: “I think it’s help!”

Lights appear overhead. Helicopter flares into hover above bus. Sheriff leans out and takes handle of M2 mounted to side. Helicopter slowly rotates and bullets rip lines across dirt. Giant carapaced arachnids explode, splattering insectoid gore everywhere.

Teacher: “We’re saved!”

As helicopter slowly lands, bus gives sideways lurch. Massive boss sproach comes from under ground. Shaking free of the dirt, it turns and launches massive strand of web towards helicopter. Web wraps around tail rotor.

Sheriff: “We’re going down! Jump!”

Sheriff and Kid hit dirt as helicopter rolls over, dramatically spinning off blades that tear through dirt next to their heads. Several slightly less gigantic sproaches come from ground and begin scurrying towards them.

Sheriff climbs onto side of burning helicopter Audey Murphy-style and starts gunning them down with M2, on bracket conveniently bent to be perpendicular with ground. M2 runs out of ammo as last one dies.

Boss sproach lumbers towards them. Sheriff reaches into wreckage, trying to dislodge large case.

Sheriff: “I can’t reach it!”

Kid: “I can fit!”

Sheriff: “No, it’s about to explode!”

Kid jumps into wreckage anyway and digs out case, passing it to Sheriff, before crawling out and jumping away just as fuel tanks explode.

Sheriff opens case and retrieves bazooka, hoists it to shoulder and fires at Rhino. Rhino takes it down the throat and explodes. Sheriff drops launcher and stumbles to Kid, who is lying in crumpled heap.

Homecoming Queen (stumbling from bus): “NOOO!!!!!!” Drops to knees by Kid. “Are you alright? Please be alright!”

Kid (coming to, then staring glimpse down Homecoming Queen’s shirt: “Oh, I’m great.”

Teacher walks slowly to Sheriff: “Aw, young love. Remember when we were like that?”

Sheriff (taking Teacher’s hand): “Think we could be like that again?”

Ms. Teacher: “I think so.” Looks around at bug corpses. “Do you think we’re finally rid of them?”

Sheriff: “Maybe, but I’ll be watching for them this time.  You know roaches, once you get them, you’re never truly rid of them.”

Sheriff and Teacher walk into sunrise as emergency vehicles pull up. Zoom to lone, small sproach crawling out of quarry. Camera rises to show field on other side of hill.

Coming soon: Spants 3: Spanthopper.

Graveyard Tunes

While I am thankful for the well-wishes of those who have heard of my recent re-scheduling, I have to insist that condolences are actually not in order. Yes, 2100-0730 is not considered prime real estate when it comes to employment in hospitals, it really isn’t all that bad.

When I graduated college, I took an oath never again swing a hammer for money. Since then, I’ve done a few church projects, but I’ve never taken money for it. I didn’t really like construction all that much, with the exception of electrical work.

And the music. My brother’s music collection is a thing to behold. At one point, there were 84 discs in his work collection. We could listen to different songs for 10-12 hour days for weeks without repeats. If there is one thing I miss about my days as a contractor, that’d be it.

Since coming to my current place of employment, I have listened to the same classic hits station for three years. 102.5, I think it is. “Classic hits from the 70’s and 80’s,” supposedly. While I cannot really speak from experience, I am fairly certain that there were more hits in those two decades than the same 50 songs I have had to listen to every day. Some South American drug lords have slunk out of their sanctuary in churches when subjected to this treatment.

It could be worse. Supposedly they torture Guatanamo Bay detainees with the Barney song and the Meow Mix theme.

While there is a plethora of other music stations in this area, the ones available in the lab is reduced by the fact that Radiology, a big lead box, is between us and most of them. As a result, the only station everyone can agree on is this abomination. Like Communism, it’s not that it makes everybody equally happy, but rather, it makes everybody equally miserable.

Since accepting 3rd shift as my official position, I now can rock out to whatever there is on my Walkman. As the sole occupant of the lab for 4 or 6 hours a night, I have no one to offend or annoy, allowing me to play anything I wish, as long as I turn it down when answering phones. From Rob Zombie to Rich Mullins, Papa Roach to Bob Dylan, or Skillet to Johnny Cash, anything goes.

Now, if I can only convince them to replace the hold music with Johnny Cash.

Flu shot: Myth vs. Fact

The myth that you can get the flu is just that. Like all myths, however, it does have some basis in fact.

The majority of symptoms associated with the flu virus are, in fact, caused by the body’s immune response to the insult. For instance, the fever is caused by the body upping its core temperature because most viruses and bacteria do not function well at temperatures exceeding 37° C. The drainage is the sloughing off of cells killed by the immune system attacking the lining of the throat to destroy cells hijacked by the virus for reproduction.

So, while you cannot get the flu from the vaccine, one can find himself with all the signs and symptoms, albeit for a far shorter time than if one actually had the flu. If, due to your field of employment, your immune system  regularly attacks small animals in your backyard, the immune response to the vaccine can be particularly violent.

It makes for a long weekend.

0444

While I would like people to think that I am up right now because of the following incident, the fact is, I'd be up anyway due to my weekly transition to graveyard schedule.  That does not change what happened.

The beloved is desperately trying to get some sleep, so I - being already slated for an all nighter - have been left in care.  There is milk in the fridge, so I'm good to go as soon as she stirs.

The lump wakes, having kicked off the blanket she was formerly taco-wrapped in.  How she pulled that off, I have no clue.  It doesn't matter:  I'm prepared.  I run to the fridge to get milk.

Here's an interesting observation:  breast milk is un-homogenized.  Didn't think about that, because it normally gets used about as fast as it's made.

Me:  "Umm, I hate to wake you up."

The beloved:  "Hmm?"

Me:  "Has breast milk gone bad when it separates?"

T.B.  "No."

Me:  "Ah, good.  'Night."

I shake up the milk and throw it in the bottle warmer.  I go change the lump's diaper and throw a sleeper on her that she can't kick off.  I hold her, bouncing a little as I wait for the beep.  It comes.

At this moment, I would like to point out that I set the bottle warmer properly.  For the second time running, I come in to find the bottle too cold.  I hit the button again, and continue bouncing and pacing to pacify my daughter as she cries.

Thanks to the last time this happens, I know not to let the bottle go through another full cycle lest it get too hot.  Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing how early to pull it.  The answer is not however long I waited tonight.  Upon finding the milk close to scalding, I may have made some disparaging remarks about the bottle warmer.

Me:  "Why you piece of poop.  And not even cute baby poop, at that.  No, you're a piece of nasty poop."

These are the kinds of expletives young fathers use.  They are pathetic, so to make up for it, I also stated wishes for it to spend its inanimate afterlife in Small Household Appliance Hell.

Fortunately, I know the way to fix this.  I quickly lay her back down and look for her soothie pacifier to keep her calm while I do so.  Then, I realize I have lost the soothie.  For you non-parents, that is what we call a "bad thing" in the parenting biz.  After a frantic search, I find it and stick it in her mouth, then fly to the kitchen to cut the hot milk with some cold milk.  Once I get it just right, I return to the living room.

To find her asleep.

One may wonder why this has been posted at 0742 instead of close to, say 0452 when it was composed.  The answer is simple.

She woke up again.  Hungry.

Presidential Contest

Last night was the first presidential debate of the season.  I did not watch it, nor will I likely see highlights of it beyond what skewering is done in next week's South Park.  I have come to the conclusion that the presidential contest system in America is totally out of touch with the realistic values needed in a leader as well as what Americans want to watch.  As such, here is my personal model for a proper contest.

1)  Debate

A president should be able to reason.  Today's debating is mostly rhetoric.  In the ancient days, the great ideological war was fought between logicians and rhetoricians.  The former believed in pursuing the ability to think, the latter the ability to win arguments.

My model for a presidential debate is to have a team of logicians running the debate on a 1 minute delay during which time they dissect the argument by propositional logic and use a buzzer and red flashing lights to denote when the speaker makes no sense.

2)  Strategy

A president must have the capacity for strategic thought.  In the Far East, strategic thought among leaders was exercised through playing Go.  There is a legend that chess was invented as a way for kings to do battle without anyone getting killed.

Since we are Americans, I suggest the quintessential American game:  Checkers.  Best two out of three.  Alternatively, bunkhouse chess with the vice-presidential candidates would be acceptable, since a president and vice president should be able to agree on strategy.

3)  Flyting

In the Norse tradition, violent altercations were known to end in flyting, where the two parties hurled insults at each other in front of an audience.  Ironically, violent altercations were also known to begin in this way.

While some might qualify today's debates as flyting, there is a conspicuous difference between veiled barbs about ethics, intelligence, or pastimes, and the ancient tradition of blatant insults regarding parentage, physical prowess, or sexual proclivities.  Nor are there hand gestures, these days, which were an integral part of Viking tradition.

I propose a three three minute rap battles.  A judge should be in place in order to call candidates out when they rehash material already used.  I would choose Eminem, since I loved 8 mile.  Candidates to be required to insult their opponents mother, wife, ride, and bling at least once, each.

4)  Physical fitness

Since a president represents our country in personal appearance - and since he determines the Presidential Physical Fitness standards - it behooves a presidential candidate to be fit.  We wonder why Russia is so much better regarded these days than they were previously and why our image is slipping, but if you take Mr. Putin and put him up against the last three or four of our presidents, there's no contest.  He hunts tigers and rides in fighters.  We have golfers.

I propose that we send each candidate to Camp Pendleton and let the R. Lee Ermey put them through the paces.  I mean, the winner is going to be commander-in-chief, so he should at least be able to make the age-adjusted physical fitness requirements of a US soldier.  Shoot, I'd let them off with the requirements of a US airman.

And, yes, I know Pendleton is Marines.  I just like the idea of turning the Gunny loose on politicians, and I don't think he'd slum it at Lackland.

The physical contest would culminate in an MMA cage brawl.  Alternatively, a WWE-hosted tag-team match with the vice-presidential candidates would be acceptable.  In the case of the latter, there must be at least one guy hit with folding chair and one guy thrown through folding table.

While some may question my criteria for determining fitness of a presidential candidate, I would also like to point out the pragmatic purpose.  The majority of Americans are bored with the current structured of campaigning.  If nothing else, my way is flippin' great TV.