Welcome to the Machine
the commune's Stu Umbrage is happy to be, and he's here, so you fill in the blanks  

Monday, March 4, 2002
What's shakin', Kevin Bacon?

Things are okay here. I’m still adjusting to living in New York and especially working at the commune. It’s a perplexing place. I’ve been here a few weeks already and so far the only person who’s spoken to me is Omar Bricks. I nodded to him in the hall and he convulsed like he’s just stepped on a power line and said:

“-bzzzzrrt- Ah, sorry about that. Freakin' security robots! They don't understand anything short of a pizza wheel to the neck.”

After that I’m not sure if I’m upset about not hearing from the rest of the staff. Not that a little common concern wouldn’t be nice, you know? So, how was your bus ride? Four wheels? Eight? Did you get a mid-ride meal or just peanuts? Here's to hoping your ears popped okay. The standard stuff.

One thing I do know for sure, the commune employee directory is hopelessly obsolete. Apparently they change employees like a whale inhaling plankton, and I think the employee list includes everyone who walks in the doors or is spotted within 100 yards of the building by the guy up on the roof with the binoculars. I'm not kidding, Employee #7710 is listed as "Suspicious Man with Jeri Curl". It's nuts.

And Christ in a cameo, the commune sends us emails about everything! Any time someone retires or transfers or quits or contemplates taking a break to use the bathroom, I get an email about it. I get all excited thinking it's an email from someone nice and instead it's a notice that Bramblethorpe Titdonkey has been promoted to Salad Bar Manager. Do I look like I give a shit? Should I wear a different shirt?

Ah, alas, I must persevere.

Mainly I’m just working on settling in. I just talked to my new auto insurance guy, and he kept saying he would drop my rates considerably if I drove a Hummer. Or something like that. Something about a hummer.

What else? Didn’t have time to make a lunch today, so I stole a can of honey-roasted peanuts from the bank to snack on. I just made a really bizarre sound dislodging one from my throat and suddenly some crazy bastard was in here in a duck-hunting hat. I need to hurry up and eat the rest of this can before I choke to death or get shot.

Speaking of the bank, one thing I’ve discovered recently: If anyone gives you any shit while you're there, just start bleeding everywhere and they'll give you anything you want just to get you out of there. Nobody wants any freaky hemophiliacs running amok in their bank. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

I guess I'd better get back to this paper airplane prototype I've been working on, since this column is going nowhere fast. I've got some flaps torn into the wings so I think it's going to fly pretty sharp. Should put somebody's eye out for sure. Sounds like a... hey, why is a "Barrel of Monkeys" supposed to be so much fun? Who's word are we taking on that? More so than say, a Bathtub of Lizards or a Closet of Weasels... or a Trunk of Pigs? I really wonder.

Can you believe masturbate.com isn't in my spellchecker? What is this, the stone age?