I agree with those who insist that today, 12/12/12, should have been the date of the apocalypse, not 12/12/21. I also agree with the great Humphrey Bogart, who, on his way out, reportedly said, “I should never have switched from scotch to martinis.”
Your hapless host headed to the chapter eternal on the way out of the office this evening, dear LDBCers, when my trip down the office escalator became a descent into defeat and disgrace as the puh-rum-pum-pum-pum of a children’s choir pierced my eardrums, and my head exploded, Scanners-style. Just this morning, I passed those same kids on the way in and said to myself as the stairs carried me aloft, “Those little fuckers better not take me out.” Well, I guess those little fuckers heard me and took me up on the dare.
Ah, but why make it all about me? Might as well update the body count for everyone. As of Saturday (yes, I’m that far behind in my tallying, alas), there were 201 down. That’s more than five platoons’ worth of valiant LDBCers gone, and as I say, because I’m a slow-moving bum of a host, I haven’t even counted everyone through today. Oh, the humanity.
Did I mention, by the way, that when I reached the tracks at the bottom of my death plummet, I found that all trains on my route were blinking a red “delayed” on the board as the horrid children segued into “Silent Night”? Thus, the day ended in what the poets Benjamin Grimm and Riley used to refer to as a revoltin’ development. Or, to paraphrase LDBCer Greg Sorenson, what a kick in the junk.
Finish what we started and carry the fight to the enemy, stalwart ones. I knew Mrs. LDBC would be distraught at the news of her beloved’s demise—and since she chuckled at my news, I can only conclude that her beloved is another man. I wish victory to each and every one of you. That stick-slinging little bastard can’t get us all.
Puh-rum-pum-pum-pum, people. Make me proud. — Mr. LDBC