So I was sitting with Ima Lister last night, discussing his post about 20 ways to sabotage yourself when a number of things happened. For those of you who are following the genocidal cephalopod invasion with appropriate concern for the welfare of Earth, the events that transpired might be of interest.
"Ima," I said, "I can't believe you wrote that list. You realize that with maybe one or two exceptions I've done every single one of those things. How is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Still?" he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Do you still do them?" he asked.
"I don't have a stack of rejections, if that's what you mean," I said.
"No because you got them over e-mail," he said. "And in a slightly appropriate reaction to getting a rejection e-mail instead of a rejection letter, you have altered your approach vector to account for new technology."
I narrowed my eyes and looked at him for a long time. "Okay...you're not fired, I guess."
"Of course I'm not fired," Ima said. "My guest blogs are more popular than your regular ones."
"Well, we did just hit 8,000 page views thanks to that article's performance on Stumbleupon," I said.
A pounding knock rattled the office door in its frame.
"I'm in a meeting," I yelled.
The door opened anyway, and Lieutenant Lambaste walked in with the Sci Guy.
"Uh...meeting," I said.
"I heard you, Chris. I just don't care," she said, sitting down on the office couch. "I need you to do something about the cephalopods. This is the fifth time they've come in this month, and they always go for MY set."
"You think they're trying to get your ubercanon?" I asked.
"I can't imagine what else," Lambaste said.
Beeep. My intercom system beeped. It was Cedric.
I looked through the door that Lt. Lambaste had left wide open when she came in and saw Cedric on the phone in the outside office.
"Cedric, the door's open, you don't have to use the intercom," I yelled.
The intercom buzzed again.
"Okay," I said, rolling my eyes. I pressed the intercom button. "What's up."
"Sorry boss," Cedric said. "I'm not sure your staff fully trusts a member of the Octorians as your personal assistant. I figured it would be best if I stayed out here."
"Fair enough," I said. "What's up?"
"The A-Team is calling again. They say it's urgent. They need to know what to do."
"What do you mean, what should they do?" I asked. "I hired them to take care of cephalopods. That's what they should be doing."
"They apparently would like it if some sort of plan were to come together. They say they really like that," Cedric said. "Love it, in fact....apparently."
"Well, I don't know how much a plan is going to help them. Turns out they really can't hit the broadside of a barn with those assault rifles of theirs! Actually, that's not true. That's the only thing they can hit--as long as it's a black barn. They seem to be able to spell out "A-Team" in bullets on a black wall, but that's IT. They couldn't hit a person if their lives depended on it. Crack commando unit my ass."
"They said they have added aluminum siding to a forklift to make it bulletproof, and they are currently baking a third batch of biscuit grenades."
I paused. I looked up at Lt. Lambaste who looked a little bit like she'd been told that a cousin that she never knew she had just drowned in a vat of asparagus flavored pudding and left her a lifetime supply of cod-scented wet-naps. "Yeah," she said, shaking her head, "I don't think either of those things is going to work."
"Just tell them I'm really sorry to waste their time," I said. "Writing About Writing made five dollars last month, so I got really fast and loose with money and thought I could spring for a mercenary army. Just let them ride out the four months of their retainer and try to stay out of trouble. And tell them that if the recreation complex blows up, I'm going to know it was them."
"Also sir...I think I know why the Octorians are interested in Lt. Lambaste's set. I don't think it's the ubercannon sir. I think they're trying to get to The Pretentitron."