There can be only one . . .

So, spring is upon us, and zombies are experiencing the first throes of young love . . . the Editor is experiencing a total lack of young love, for a wide variety of reasons too tedious to explore here, but they are good ones. Having zombies really does occupy the majority of my time. Sort of like children, only dead, rotting, and out to kill you by any brutal means in their power. The Editor retracts my penultimate statement. I believe it is exactly like having children, although as a crusty old unmarried individual, this is based solely upon the experience of others.

So we turn to a consideration of the relative intellectual merits of employees in the service industry, for no apparent reason. The Editor has recently been plagued with several young ladies, employed by the local coffee shop nearest to the place of employment of the Editor; no matter how many times I request a medium sized English Breakfast tea, it never seems to quite sink in. I have received decaf English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Chamomile, hot water with no tea bag in sight, and on one memorable occasion, a double nonfat latte. Is it a hearing problem? Does the Editor's slurred, (frequently hungover . . . ahem) morning tones make "English Breakfast" sound so much like "nonfat latte"? Or are these folk simply the most abject of morons? The research staff is working on it, or at least trying to; but unfortunately, they work best when drinking a caffeinated beverage of choice, and such does NOT seem to be forthcoming. Ever. No matter how I beg, plead, beat my head against the counter, and run screaming from the coffee establishment, in tears. (The Editor is fragile, in that brief period between waking and drinking tea, which is why this is such a daily trauma.)

A small example of the general mental capacity of these girls:

Brunette Girl: Do you ever, like, use the computer?
Blonde Girl: Yeah, sometimes, I mean, to like, go online.
Brunette: Cause I never go on the computer. But when I do I like, try to touch the screen.
Blonde: (unencouraging noise)
Brunette: Yeah, there's this, like, computer at my house, and like, I touch the screen and go, like, why aren't you working? And then I like, see the mouse. Heeeee HHHHHEEEEEEE!!!
Blonde: Oh my god, like, yeah. Is it a laptop or something? I like, used computers in high school, and I could, like, get a really good paying job, but I mean, it's so not me, or whatever.

God help us all.

Especially the Editor, who depends on Tweedledee and Tweedledum (except that they're both Tweedledum) to get my morning sustenance to me in good order. I'm just going to get an IV, and trail it around after me, rattling the wheels and drooling on myself, just for effect.

The above is entirely verbatim; it was seared on my memory, as if someone had stuck a burning hot brand of the word "Nitwit" on my brainpan.

Just to continue the day's seeming dialogue theme, I will leave you all with a few lines from the most excellent film "The Chronicles of Riddick", which has the unique distinction of comparing unfavorably with "Battlefield Earth". ("Battlefield Earth", for those of you not in the know, is a movie produced by John Travolta at the behest of L. Ron Hubbard, in which he also stars as a "Psychlo", a big alien with finger prostheses and platform boots. Some guy rides around on a horse with flowing blond hair, and rats are eaten. So when I say that C of R is a poor film by comparison, you know what I mean. They're both must-sees, in every sense.)

Random guy on the planet of Crematoria (!): What're you gonna do with that soup cup?
Riddick: It's a teacup.
Random guy: What're you gonna do with that teacup?
Riddick: I'm gonna kill you with my teacup.

Think it couldn't get any better? Well, Riddick DOES kill him with the teacup, and then fights the Necromongers for the rest of the movie. My god, it gave me feelings no other cinematographic experience has before or since. Feelings I had thought impossible . . .

Now you all know that the Editor is alive and well, I shall depart for distant climes once more. So long, suckers.